Asylum
by uberneko-zero
Summary: For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother. Dean/Sam slash. AU
1. Prologue

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

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><p><strong>Summary: <strong>For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

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><p><strong>AN:** There shouldn't really be any spoilers.I am using some characters that show up possibly into season 2 which is mostly all I've seen at the time of this writing. Though I did watch the entire animated series first.

(((The anime starts out slow the first couple episodes, but then it is _amazing_. And different enough from the original show that both are totally worth watching. The animated series is more slashy, which I love (*ETA* I rescind this comment. The TV show got waaay more slashy than I ever could have guessed. Haha. I love it.) The anime also condenses the yellow-eyes plot into the one main storyline. Streamlines it so to speak. And they 'fix' and refine some scenes and characters into something better.)))

The most spoilery thing you might find about this fic is that a character exists, and that I try to keep them IC. You know, just in case you haven't watched the show that far or something. But I'm totally changing around personal histories and stuff.

**FYI: **The only other thing I want to say is that I am not a fan of incest. AT ALL. But Sam and Dean just... I dunno. Maybe I'm just picking up on the chemistry I see onscreen but they just don't strike me as brothers really. And they make such good pair. Hell, if they even make jokes in the show about them looking like they are a couple... lol. Just sayin'.

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><p><span>Prologue: <span>

_3/15/1988 Kansas _

It was black out. Night. Dean could hardly see anything, but he was sure he'd made the shot. He was positive that he'd hit it. His small hands shook as they lowered the sawed off shotgun. His heart was still hammering, and the sound of the blast was still ringing in his ears.

"Good job, son," his father said, clapping him on the back. He lowered the infrared goggles from his face and handed them to the 9 year old boy.

Dean took them and held them up. He could see clearly now, though he wasn't sure he wanted to. His quarry lay dead, shot through the heart.

His dad seemed proud of him.

He lowered the goggles and tried to figure out if it was adrenaline that he was feeling, or if he was merely going to be sick. "Thanks, Dad."

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><p><em>1223/1993 Lawrence, Kansas_

"Boys?" Mary Winchester called out as she arrived home early from an abbreviated flight. The client's negotiations had wrapped up more quickly than planned so she had unexpectedly been gifted with getting home two hours early. She locked the front door and reached down to slip her high heels off. "Boys, are you here?"

She frowned as she put her leather folio down on the kitchen counter. It was nearly 7 p.m. Everyone should have been home at this time.

"Mommy!" Sam yelled energetically as he barreled down the hallway and crashed into her with an equally energetic hug. "I missed you! What's for dinner? How come you're home early?"

"I missed you, too, sweetie," she said, tussling his soft, curling fair hair. "Our trip didn't take as long as we thought it would, so that means I get extra time with you." She tapped him gently on the nose, laughing when he shook his head and swatted at her hand.

"Moooom," he whined. "I hate when you do that!"

Mary looked around the darkened house, still feeling uneasy. "Where's your brother? And where is your father? Shouldn't he be making you dinner?"

"Dean went to buy me some EasyMac&Cheese," the bright-eyed boy chirped, bouncing on his heels.

_EasyMac... _Mary shook her head, brows drawing together. There had been an unopened box of them in the pantry when she'd left for her trip. She knew how Sammy loved the stuff. But how in the world would he have made it through a whole box? He would have had to be eating it every day this past week.

The lock in the front door turned and Dean's surprised face appeared as the door swung open. He was wearing a pair of jeans that looked practically slept in, an equally wrinkled black t-shirt bearing the band name Megadeth and his favorite flannel shirt over that. "Hey, Mom," he said casually. "What are you doing home?"

"Where were you?" she asked sharply. "How could you leave your brother home alone like that? He's only 10." She knew where he had supposedly gone, and the plastic grocery bag in his hand made that even clearer, but she couldn't understand how he had thought that leaving Sammy by himself was okay. It made her feel slightly panicked. How long had he been gone? Was it only to the store and back? Where was John?

"I-I just went to the store," her 14 year old son stammered. He'd absolutely frozen in the doorway and an almost guilty look was flickering upon his face like he wasn't sure if he was _supposed_ to feel bad or not. It reminded her of his father. He was watching her face intently with wide green eyes. "Sammy loves his EasyMac-" he tried to explain.

"I know he does!" she snapped, feeling her younger son recoil at her tone. "Dean, where is your father?"

"I'm n-not sure. He said he'd be back in a few days." Dean was sure that he'd never seen his mother so angry. He wasn't even sure why she was. He was 14, for chrissakes. He was able to take care of himself. And Sammy was 10, not a whole lot younger; did she think that he was going to drown himself in the tub like a baby if he was left alone for 20 minutes?

They were careful. They weren't going to let anything in the house. Sammy knew to salt the windows and he'd even gotten really good with the revolver. So why was she freaking out? Didn't she think that dad would train them right?

Part of him wondered though, seeing her reaction, if _this _was why dad always hunted when she was gone for work. Now that he thought of it, dad had always joked around saying, 'Don't tell your mother,' with a conspiratorial wink. Dean had thought it was just a guy thing. A way of bonding. He'd asked his dad before why he wasn't supposed to talk about their training or hunting trips and he'd said that he didn't want her to worry.

Just now, 'worry' didn't seem to be the half of it. She looked furious.

"That's it!" she declared with finality. "I can't believe him! How could he-?" She swiped her bag off of the counter. "This is just so-!"

Dean was starting to get nervous. Something big was about to happen. "Mom, it's no big deal. We can take care of ourselves." He made himself shut the door and lock it behind him, and bravely brought the grocery bag into the kitchen as if nothing was wrong.

"How often does he leave like this?" she asked him, her voice becoming softer but not less intense. It quavered slightly.

"Now and then," Dean said shiftily, trying to make light of it, sensing something was about to change.

"Sammy, honey?" she turned to his little brother and crouched down in front of him. Her hands rested on his small shoulders and she looked him in the eye quite seriously. "Does Daddy trust you to take care of yourselves a lot?" She sugar-coated her voice, which seemed to confuse Sam.

Sam glanced at Dean as if unsure of what he was supposed to do. He didn't seem to understand why his brother was acting strangely, and why he wasn't being honest with their mom.

"Eyes over here, baby," Mary said, pulling Sam's attention back to her and disallowing any sort of silent communication they might have had. "Does Daddy leave you at home a lot?"

"Well, sure," he said uncertainly.

She flinched. "Is he gone for a long time?"

Sam was still looking confused, but now he was also starting to look anxious. He was catching on. "Not more than a few days, tops," he blurted out, his dark grey eyes, too large in his pale face, brimming with emotion. He looked like he might have added, _'scout's honor!'_ "He tries to always be home when you are, though. Since he misses you."

Sam thought this should make her happy, so he didn't understand Dean hissing under his breath, or their mom grabbing him by the arm. He wouldn't have understood that his words had just confirmed that their dad was doing things behind their mother's back.

Mary rose abruptly. "We're leaving. Right now."

Sammy couldn't have known that she was feeling betrayed. Or that something like this had happened before, when he was really little and that their parents had nearly divorced over it. But Dean knew.

"Wait! Mom!"

Dean realized in that moment that his father had been keeping secrets. Mom had never been okay with this after all. She hadn't come to see reason; she just hadn't known about the continued training, the hunting trips, any of it.

He had to do something. They couldn't just leave Dad like this. Even if Dad had been wrong, lying to him as well as her. But he was just doing what he thought was best. He just wanted them safe.

"Dean!" Sam called out, pulling at the grip on his arm.

Mary Winchester looked upon her oldest son. She was like a statue. Beautiful and made of stone. "I see him in you, Dean." Her voice seemed strange. Regretful? "Already, you're protecting his bizarre behavior."

"But Mom, you don't understand! Dad, he-!" he broke off as understanding dawned sharply and stole his protest. "You're taking Sammy away from me?"

_She's going to leave me __**and**__ Dad? _He felt so lost then. Cold. As if he had already watched half of his family walk away and disappear over the horizon.

She looked at him frankly, with an adult's seriousness, placing the burden on him of growing up too fast in this moment. Her eyes were a steely blue-grey, similar to Sammy's. "Between me and your father, you would choose to stay with him, wouldn't you?"

Choose? How could he choose? Maybe he got along better with his dad, but he loved them both. And it wasn't just about them... it was really a choice between Dad, or both Mom and Sammy. How could he stand to lose Sam, whom he loved best of all?

"I-" Dean turned tormented eyes to his baby brother's face. "I- don't know." His dad needed him... but what about Sammy? Was she really going to take him? Sam was all he had when Dad was gone for days on end. What would he do without him? Who would protect him? His mom didn't know... couldn't and wouldn't know. How could she keep him safe?

His dad or Sammy? Whom would he pick? Who was more important? Could he really leave his dad like this? Let him come home to an empty house, not knowing what had happened to them? Should he let his dad's training guide him? His first duty was to take care of and protect his little brother...

"Dean," Sam was crying. He tried to pretend he wasn't, but his lip was trembling and his eyes were glazed with tears that would be falling down his cheeks at any minute.

"Sammy... I can't leave Dad." If his mom was really walking out on them, his dad would be a mess when he found out. Even so, saying it hurt. And the crestfallen expression that met his words felt like a knife had been stuck in his chest. "I just want to make sure he's ok. I'll meet up with you later." His own cheeks felt wet for some reason. He wiped at them.

Sam finally succeeded in twisting his arm out of his mother's grip and ran to Dean, throwing his arms around him in a desperate hug. Dean returned the embrace and could feel the younger boy's slight body shaking. "Promise me," he sniffed. "When Dad's ok, you have to come back."

Dean raised his eyes to his mother's. They'd never looked so stern or so cold. He wondered if she'd allow him to keep such a promise. "I will," he said softly.

Sam raised tear-streaked eyes to his. "Promise?" he demanded.

Dean nodded. "I promise." He only hoped he'd find a way not to break his word.

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><p><em>609/2003 Stonybrook State Hospital, NY _

"So," the psychiatrist said, "Dean."

"Yes?" Dean answered glibly, sprawling disrespectfully in the chair across from the doctor.

"Your file says that you have been in and out of detention centers since you were 16."

"That's right," he said un-apologetically. It couldn't be helped, after all.

"And you were living with your father during this time?"

Dean nodded and sighed. That was around the time his father was institutionalized. "Look, I get that you are trying to 'know' me and all, but can't you just read the damn file on your own? I'm getting tired of all this yes-man crap."

"Of course I could read it on my own, but I want to know your thoughts on what it says."

"I've gone through this like 100 times now and I hate repeats. If you were all so anxious to give what I thought any credence, would I really be sitting in this chair right now, talking to you?"

"I know it must be frustrating for you-"

"You're damn right it is! This may be your first time around the block, but it isn't mine. You think with all the money you all spent on fancy schools to get your certificates in head-shrinking, that you could damn well learn to take some notes when people are talking to you."

Dr. Kubrick put down his file and steepled his hands. "Very well, Mr. Winchester, why don't you tell me why you think you're here." His tone was vaguely sarcastic.

Dean gave him a surly look. "Why don't _you _go to hell."

The man sighed and stood, gathering some paperwork and putting it into his leather briefcase. "I think we're done for today."

"You think?" Dean retorted.

"I'll put in my recommendation for your new prescription and we'll start it next week."

Dean stiffened. "Hey, wait a minute. I don't need pills, Doc. There's nothing wrong with me."

The psychiatrist shrugged. "Of course. And that is why I was sitting over here, and you over there." He closed his briefcase with a snap.

Dean lunged up from his chair but found himself grabbed and restrained by two orderlies he hadn't noticed until now. "There's nothing wrong with me!" he shouted as the doctor calmly exited the room. "Hey-!" He strained against the iron grip upon him. "_I said, there's nothing wrong with me!_"

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><p>TBC<p> 


	2. In Front of Me

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer* **I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

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><p><span>Ch. 1: In Front of Me<span>

_9/23/2006 10:15 a.m. Oak Grove Sanitarium, MI._

"Good morning, Dr. Singer," a nurse greeted the newest addition to the staff.

"Good morning, Nancy," he replied with a practiced smile. He was a little distracted this morning. It was his first week at the facility and already, one of his patient's cases was getting to him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He'd reviewed everyone's patient information, medication and personal history as was typical before the first face-to-face meeting, but one person was standing out to him especially.

Dean Winchester, male, age 27.

"Good morning, Doctor," an orderly nodded to him pleasantly. "You're meeting Winchester today, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

Dean seemed to be something of a local legend around here.

"Good luck, Doc."

He kept his concern from showing upon his face in response, and merely uttered a 'thank you'. Dean was a special case. He manifested symptoms from what could have been several disorders and yet he somehow defied classification. He was atypical. He was also said to have a taste for physical confrontation when he felt provoked, as well as an odd and secretive manner. He mostly kept to himself yet would engage the other residents in a friendly, seemingly open manner at times. He enjoyed card games or other activities that could be used to gamble.

It was hard to determine from the case notes, but the difficulty other professionals had had in working with him might have been due to methodology.

Female doctors had been forbidden as Dean had a penchant for trying to seduce them which had not been wholly unsuccessful. Rumor had it that he had even convinced one to alter his medication, and it was during this time that some of his stranger behavior had occurred. In one instance, he had grabbed a piece of cutlery, proclaiming it to be silver, and proceeded to attack one of the other patients with it.

In the file, it was noted that Dean, upon interview, had calmly and un-remorsefully stated that he 'had to be sure'. The accosted patient sustained minor injuries and had been moved to another facility. Dean had also been moved, and that is when he came to stay at Oak Grove. It had been 2 years now.

Dr. Singer entered his office, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. He liked having time to prepare. Time to relax and put himself in the correct frame of mind for helping his patients. It involved separating from the overly analytical and worried mindset that he came into while poring over each person's file. There were notes from the other doctors, prescriptions, and the diagnosis, as well as a record of any notable behavior. He didn't pay much attention to the other doctors' assessments of the patients, past understanding the way in which they would have been treated. A diagnosis was not set in stone. Sometimes there were things that could be overlooked or missed and that could result in a misdiagnosis. He felt very strongly that each doctor should re-evaluate the patient and decide whether they agreed or disagreed with the assessment and whether they felt treatment was worthwhile as it was.

This Dean character... he felt as if something was amiss in all of this.

The doctor settled into his hard-backed chair and rubbed a hand over his face.

_Delusions. Occasional violence, especially when feeling challenged. A sharp mind. _His gut instinct would be to look into mild schizophrenia. Although according to the notes, Dean could be quite social when he felt like it. He did not seem to exhibit any problems with emotional expression or flattened affect. But then again, he tended to be a loner.

There was no indication of what these 'delusions' might be. Without knowing this, it was hard to say whether a person was actually experiencing visual or aural hallucinations like one might if they were schizophrenic or whether they were paranoid delusional. The difference would be believing the FBI was after you to kill you, versus seeing agents actually stalking you. And perhaps to some that seemed like splitting hairs, but the treatment of such would change depending on such things. Not to mention the entire diagnosis.

He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath inward and slowly breathed out. These first interviews, truth be told, made him a little anxious. It was truly walking into the unknown, unprepared. On more than one occasion, he'd seen patients who were so unstable, misunderstood and at the end of their rope, or suffering from inappropriate medication, that he'd been attacked. It wasn't _always _physical, but that sort of personal aggression was hard to deal with professionally. Especially when maintaining an unflappable exterior was crucial to working with a specific patient. With many violent or aggressive types, showing even a flicker of fear or of being startled was the death knell and progress from that point on would be impossible.

Part of what troubled him was the benzodiazepines Dean had been on during the last two years. Varying doses, and a rotation of different drugs, but it all started with Dean's previous psychiatrist, Dr. Kubrick. The initial dose at the time when the decision to administer the drugs was made was atypically high. Meant to relieve anxiety or paranoia, the drugs could also paradoxically cause an increase in aggression and behavioral disinhibition. Not to mention interaction with other prescriptions mentioned in his patient record. There was a possibility that Dean's attack on a fellow patient was brought on by medication he was taking. The incident happened only about a month or so after his new regimen began. Afterwards, his hostility remained fairly consistent, though his doses were discretely lowered during the transition here to Oak Grove. Dr. Kubrick continued to see him in the weeks before he was moved, but his notes seemed strangely abbreviated and uninvolved.

Until now, Dr. Kubrick was overseeing his case from afar, sending in therapists for the one-on-one, and coming in person only once every 6 months or so.

It was all very atypical. Even the rumors bothered him. Why would the staff be convinced that it was Dean's doing that his medication was changed when it was clear from the file and the doctors notes that the change was made by none other than Dr. Kubrick?

A knock came at the door. His time was up.

"Come in," he intoned.

A dark-skinned orderly with a face as expressive as a stone wall poked his head in. "You ready?" he asked the doctor.

His name was Paulo, Dr. Singer knew. He was actually a nice guy, just extremely serious while working. He happened to have an excellent game face which is why he'd been chosen to be Winchester's escort, most likely.

He nodded his assent and a sullen, dark-haired young man was propelled into the room. "In you go, tiger," Paulo said.

Winchester shrugged off his hand and threw himself into one of the stiff leather chairs on the other side of the desk. Paulo took up residence outside the office door until he was needed.

"So, you're the new shrink, huh?" the young man said, eyeing him and looking quite unimpressed. "You don't look like much." He tossed out the insult casually. "You lose a game of cards to get this gig or what?"

"You seem to be quite a celebrity here. Maybe I _won _that game of cards."

Dean's eyebrows rose slightly. "Alright, alright," he nodded in grudging respect. "So maybe you don't have a stick lodged up your ass after all. Nice to see once in a while."

"So, Dean-"

Dean shook his head and leaned forward, giving the psychiatrist a conspiratorial look. "Just call me Batman."

Dr. Singer quirked a brow.

"Goddamn, you're serious, Doc." Dean settled back into his chair. "It was a joke. You do understand what jokes are, don't you?" His hands were never still. Just now they formed a loose sort of cage where they were cupped between his knees and looked like a Rubix cube or something similar would be quite at home there. It would probably just be something to fiddle with. Dean didn't seem to have the patience to actually solve it.

"From you? I think it's a defense mechanism," Dr. Singer said, giving him a look much like the type given to a wayward son. It was one of those no-nonsense, cut-the-B.S. kind of looks.

Dean laughed a little. "Yeah, right. So what's your name, Doc? Apparently I didn't get the memo, and Dr. Evil didn't exactly keep me in the loop."

"Are you referring to Dr. Kubrick?"

"Yeah, a certified asshole. You know, you don't need a degree for that sort of thing - for some people being an ass just comes naturally. But I guess if he tried being like that in the real world instead of here he'd be getting his ass kicked. I'd be first in line." (Personally, Dean felt that the only thing the man had going for him is that he was vaguely reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in _The Shining_. Though it was in a craggier, Jesus-freak sort of way.)

"He's had a long and highly esteemed career," the psychiatrist said. "If you think he is bad at what he does, why do you think that is the case?"

Dean shrugged. "Ass-kisser, maybe?" The younger man was starting to look a little agitated, though he was hiding it. His eyes were flicking around the room from time to time. "How the hell should I know? It's not like we can lodge formal complaints in these holes."

"Did you like Stonybrook more than you like it here at Oak Grove?"

"The nurses there were hotter," Dean muttered.

"I think that will be all for today, Dean. Thank you for your time."

Dean gave him a weird look. "Why thank me? It's not like I have a choice to be here or not."

"There is always a choice."

"That human-shaped brick wall outside begs to differ."

The psychiatrist stood and extended his hand to his patient. Dean gave him another strange, calculating look but rose to clasp and shake it. "Pleased to meet you, Dean. I'm Dr. Robert Singer."

"Nice ta meetcha, Bobby," Dean returned with a flippant smile.

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><p><em>January 2007...<em>

Dr. Singer met with Dean twice a week for the next several months. During this time, he began weaning him off of the benzodiazepines. He had yet to get the younger man to open up and mention anything pertaining to delusions, anxiety or hallucinations. In fact, aside from a short attention span that seemed to stem from boredom and a hair-trigger temper, he appeared to be pretty normal.

This did not indicate that he _was_, not by any means, because he could have merely been hiding suspect behavior. It was not uncommon to encounter extremely talented actors in places like this.

His hostility, according to other staffers, appeared to be lessening as his doses decreased. It was a good sign. He might still contain all sorts of aggression but he was showing less susceptibility to acting on it.

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><p><em>April, 2007...<em>

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Singer asked Dean during the course of another session. It had been four months now.

"In general? Peachy."

"And how did you feel when you first started seeing Dr. Kubrick?" What he really wanted to know was how Dean felt personally in regards to the changes in his medication.

A dark look crossed over Dean's face. "Pissed off."

"In general? Or just at him personally?"

"All of the above," Dean nearly growled. "He was a dick. Didn't listen to a thing I had to say and started pumping me full of chemicals. And he's supposed to help people **not **be crazy? I felt like a total basket case because of him."

"You felt normal before you started seeing him?"

"Well, yeah. There's nothing wrong with me, Doc. I got stuck in here because of a misunderstanding."

Dr. Singer sat back, digesting that. So Dean did not think he had any cause to be here, receiving treatment. He did act rather normal, it was true. But it was rare to find someone living in a facility for so long that hadn't exhibited some erratic behavior that would have caused them to be here in the first place. And if Dean was mostly normal, why wouldn't he have been released? Many patients only stayed here until suitable medications had been worked out that would enable them to live their lives more or less like everyone else.

"Why did you attack the man at Stonybrook?"

Dean shrugged. "He had awful hair. Couldn't let that go, could I? It was driving me nuts, staring at it day after day."

"Dean," Dr. Singer warned.

The young man rolled his eyes and glared, eyes averted. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

Arresting green eyes tilted to meet his. "Maybe he was a werewolf," he intoned ominously.

The doctor met his stare seriously, wondering if there was any truth to the statement. Rather, if Dean believed what he was saying.

Dean's serious face dissolved suddenly and he laughed with a mocking smile. "Werewolves, Bobby? _Seriously?_Man, but I had you going."

"That's Dr. Singer, to you," he said gruffly.

"Yeah, whatever, Bobby," Dean said good-naturedly. "Listen, you got any more of those books you let me see before? I'm getting bored with the selection of chick novels, which is practically all they've got down in the common room, and they're fresh out of Hustler."

"I do. But what makes you interested in things like folklore, Mayan rites and the history of gun-smithing?" Dean was showing definite tendencies towards such subjects, and had for several weeks now. It had taken some time to ferret out something of interest to his patient... lots of systematic word-dropping, spread out over the last many months. It had to be done slowly, and inconsistently so as not to be obvious. Just now was the first time he was going so far as to bring it up.

"I read it for the articles," Dean said with a wink.

Amusingly enough, it was Dean's boredom in this place and his dislike of structure that had the spiky haired young man get up in the middle of a session to start gauchely going through his bookshelf, exposing the very information Dr. Singer had been looking to obtain. Luckily, he had prepared for such a scenario, and had a diverse sampling of subjects represented. He was surprised at Dean's selection of a dusty old book describing the history of Religion in the greater British Isles, as well as Common Lore, and even the Pagan beliefs in the area. Especially as it was located next to a book on Nude photography. He was even more surprised that Dean seemed to know some Latin.

"Really," Dr. Singer said blandly. "And here I was wondering if you actually knew how to read."

"What can I say?" Dean said with a smirk. "Some of the smart ones are born pretty. Don't be fooled by the packaging." He got up and stretched before sauntering over to a book-lined shelf. "We can't all look like eggheads or the gene pool would be in some seriously deep shit."

Dr. Singer shook his head. Dean Winchester certainly did not suffer from a low opinion of himself.

"Actually, this stuff reminds me of my dad," he said as he skimmed the titles on the books' spines. "He used to read to me and my brother when we were young, tell us stories. He also liked guns and stuff. He was a hunter."

Dr. Singer made a mental note to look into Dean's family history. "Where is he now?"

"Dunno."

"And your brother?"

He was surprised to see Dean's shoulders tense. "Around."

"You haven't said much about your family. Were you and your brother close?"

"Aw, who cares?" Dean said, thumbing through a heavy tome. "We haven't seen each other in years." That awkward stiffness in his frame remained. "Are we done here? I wanna get something to eat."

"Sure."

"I'm borrowing this one," Dean said on his way out, covering his agitation with one of his usual flash smiles. "Thanks."

* * *

><p>Dean slipped out of the office and around the corner, his own personal bodyguard picking up the rear. "Hey, tin-man," he called over his shoulder at Paulo. "Have a heart and piss off, would ya?"<p>

"That's the worst Wizard of Oz reference I've ever heard," the tall man said. "And you got it all wrong. The tin man was missing a brain, not a heart - that was the lion."

"Well aren't you just a wealth of pop culture information," Dean said sarcastically. He rolled his shoulders in irritation. He might not have had some kind of apple pie childhood, but he didn't need to be schooled on the Wizard of Fucking Oz. "Besides, tell me that I could have made a crack about your brain without you trying to kick the shit out of me."

"There is no 'try'."

"Thank you, Yoda," he muttered. He really wanted to be left alone. He felt sorely agitated and his mood was not improving. He felt the familiar itch for a good old fistfight. Raising his voice, he said, "I would totally own your ass in a fight. But I don't need the extra tarnish on my reputation."

"Right, like anyone would see more tarnish upon an already completely tarnished record."

"It isn't that bad," he scoffed.

"Yes, Winchester, it is. You're psychotic, man."

"Whatever. I don't see you pissing yourself standing here next to me."

"Well, I'm not going out of my way to piss you off."

"Really?" He said with a scowl. "I _feel_ pretty pissed off right now. Maybe I'll go all Tyson on your ass and bite your fucking ear off."

"In your dreams, princess. I'd have you on the ground, rolling around in agony before you could even blink."

"Nothing like a bit of male bonding, huh?"

A few minutes later, Dean took the left turn towards his room instead of taking the route to the cafeteria. His ominous shadow said, "I thought you wanted to eat?"

Dean shifted the book he was carrying to his other hand. He gave a semi-lewd grin. "Naw, I'd rather polish the jewels a little before the roommate comes back from stuffing his face." He turned the handle of his room. "So, seriously, Polly, piss the fuck off."

He didn't bother to look at the man before shutting the door in his face.

_God damn. You'd think that being kept in semi-isolation would afford a little more privacy._ Instead, he always had some meat-head or another stalking his every move.

Paulo was alright. Had a sense of humor at least, despite appearances. But Dean just wanted some room to breathe. Maybe he should stage something really crazy if just to get tossed in a single room with a door that locked only on the outside.

He flopped down on the thin, dingy bed and put his hands behind his head.

He hadn't let himself think of Sammy in a long time.

Damn Bobby for bringing him up. For dredging up these feelings that were best left buried.

He hadn't seen his brother in ages. He wondered if Sam even knew where he was. Or if he did, if he would even think of coming to see him. Sammy was only 10 years old the last time that they'd seen each other. He could still see the fear in those tear-filled eyes, could still feel the ache in his chest as they embraced for what would be the last time. He still resented his mother for splitting them up. Sure, he could understand her feelings regarding their dad, but still. The way she'd gone about it had fucked everything up.

And now he'd gone and gotten himself stuck in this place.

He might have hoped to be released when they realized there was nothing wrong with him, letting him out on 'good, sane behavior', but then that asshole Kubrick had to fuck it all up. He swore that whatever shit they were making him take was fucking with his head. And he was more certain now than ever that was the case. Since Bobby had started seeing him, the fog in his head was clearing, and the violent impulses had receded.

Maybe with Bobby's help, he could finally get the hell out of here and back to living his life.

Maybe he could find Sam again. Actually talk to him this time, instead of just checking that he was alive and well at college.

The corner of his mouth turned up. Sam was so much older now, insanely tall, and yet he still had the same old girly, longish hair that Dean had always teased him for when they were younger. His face had lost the childish round cheeks and was now chiseled and lean, but Dean could still see his baby brother in the soulful eyes and the expressive mouth.

He'd been watching Sam study in a coffee shop that day that everything had gone wrong. The windows were floor to ceiling and he could easily see in from outside from where he lounged in the shadow of a large oak tree, dark coat and hair blending in with the trunk he leaned against. He'd toyed with going in there, laying eyes upon his brother in person and seeing what sort of reaction he'd be met with. He wanted to know if Sam had thought about him nearly as much as he'd thought of Sam.

He'd wanted to hold Sammy's face in his hands, to feel something solid between them, to reassure himself that they were both real. He'd wanted Sam to look into his eyes, and his lips to quirk up into a smile. He'd wanted...

Dean threw his arm up over his eyes, feeling them burn.

In the end, he'd been afraid. He didn't want to go in there only to find that Sam hardly recognized or remembered him. He wondered what their mother might have been telling him all these years. That he was just like Dad? Crazy? Erratic? A bad influence?

A girl had walked up to Sam's table then, smiling at him. Sam had looked up and Dean swore that for a moment, his eyes had drifted outside as if spotting him. He watched those brows draw together briefly, the way they used to when something was bothering him and his grey eyes would become ridiculously luminous and irresistible. He could never withstand that puppy dog look Sam was so good at.

He'd ducked around the tree as the girl recaptured Sam's attention by sitting down across from him, his heart pounding in his chest.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" Dean whispered aloud in the quiet confines of his luxurious cell. He'd asked himself that more times than he could count.

If only he'd just gone in there that day, things could have been different. Maybe he wouldn't have gotten himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. And what was the point in tracking Sammy down just to 'check in' on him? He knew that wasn't all he wanted. He didn't want to be some unknown phantom, lurking around like some ghost that wanted to be a part of life but never could be again.

He rubbed at his face, then put his hands behind his head again, gaining control over his thoughts and reactions once more. The ceiling was cracked and painted a dingy white. It was the color of depression. Of loss. "God, I miss you," he said quietly into the still air.

He hated the thought of Sam going through life, attending that fancy school, dating random girls, maybe one day marrying one, and never thinking of him again.

He wondered if he still felt it had been worth it to stay with his dad when he'd been given the choice.

He wouldn't allow himself to think on it. His dad had needed him most. He needed protection against himself, a certain threat, versus Sammy who _might_need protection against the things that went 'bump' in the night. It was the only decision he could have made at the time, wanting to keep their family intact. And yet... if he did allow himself to dwell upon it...

He was pretty sure he never would have let go of the small hand that had gripped his so tightly.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Campbell?"<p>

The sound of someone's voice came through the fog, but it was all distorted. "Mr. Campbell?"

Sam's eyes were closed but everything seemed too bright, and noises too loud. He tried to cover his eyes with his arm, but he seemed to have misplaced it.

Something very strong smelling was put under his nose and a firm, cold hand on his forehead kept him from moving away. He groaned.

"He's coming out of it. Get some water."

Sam's eyes fluttered open and the world was a riot of light, white, and unfamiliar faces. "Where am I?" he rasped, barely able to speak.

"You're in the hospital, Mr. Campbell. Try not to speak."

He felt a blind flash of panic then, wondering if he had lost his arm and that that was why he couldn't move it - but it was there, attached as always.

"What happened?" he asked, accepting the water. His throat felt like raw meat, like he hadn't used it in ages. Speaking was inordinately difficult.

"There was an accident," a man in a lab coat said shortly. "Please refrain from speaking. You need to conserve your strength."

Sam ignored him. "What accident? I don't remember anything."

One of the nurses was whispering something to the nurse next to her. She looked concerned. She was shaking her head as if in disagreement with her coworker.

"It is probably for the best, son."

"No," he argued, his voice gaining strength though the urge to cough was starting to plague him. "I _need _to know. What happened?"

"We aren't entirely sure, but you were brought in 10 days ago by a man who claimed to be your father. He said there was an accident."

"My father?" he whispered, his eyebrows drawing together in disbelief. "But it couldn't be..." _I haven't seen him in years. How would he even know where I was?_" My mother - where is she?"

"We're sorry, son. She didn't make it."

"Didn't make it-?" he started angrily and then fell into a fit of coughing. "What are you talking about? What in the hell happened?"

His gaze spun about the room wildly, eyes touching every face. They were like dark strangers. Monsters. Nothing made sense. Nothing-

He saw images then. Confusing flashes. His mother's face, smiling at him in the car. His current girlfriend laughing and taking his hand. He'd been introducing them that day. There was a park. Then there was screaming. Blood. His mother's lips forming words. He saw his father's face, briefly. Just a moment. Focused, closed off. Grim. Looking over his head at something. Were they connected? He didn't know.

He realized his hands were shaking. No, not just his hands. His arms, his whole body. He-

"Oh, dammit, we're losing him again!" someone shouted as the room grew dim.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Title is from a song by Infected Mushroom. I thought it captured some of the mood. Plus, it's just an awesome song. ^^ (Have a listen.)

**Infected Mushroom - "In Front of Me"**

Why can't I see what's in front of me?

Why can't I see what's in front of me?

I see the doors that I can't open  
>Adding locks from time to time<br>When it opens something blocks me  
>And I'm asking myself why<br>Did I take the step I wanted  
>Was it just a state of mind?<br>I feel sorry for myself  
>Every time I close my eyes.<p>

And I fall into a hole  
>And I can take no more.<p>

And I fall into a hole  
>And I can take no more.<p>

And I fall into a hole  
>And I can take no more.<p>

And I fall into a hole  
>And I can take no more.<p>

Why can't I see what's in front of me?

Why can't I see what's in front of me?

What's behind the door I wonder  
>Must be brighter than my past<br>Will I feel a little different  
>When I take myself across<br>Was it really worth the turning?  
>Was it just a foolish task<br>I feel sorry for myself  
>when I open up my eyes...<p>

And I fall into a hole  
>And I can take no more.<p>

And I fall into a hole  
>And I can take no more.<p>

And I fall into a hole  
>And I can take no more.<p>

And I fall into a hole  
>And I can take no more...<p> 


	3. End of the Road

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Historically, the term '_Sanitarium_' was used to describe a sort of health resort. This word has been in use long before the 20th century.

The term _'Sanatorium'_ (also sometimes spelled 'sanatarium' or 'sanitorium') was used to describe a medical facility for the treatment of long-term illness (typically tuberculosis). In 1904 the word was created as a way to distinguish between the existing health facilities in which people could stay and recover their health with the benefit of fresh food, water, air, and rest, and the new hospitals. Instead of being derived from the Latin noun _sanitas_, meaning health, the Latin verb root _sano_was used, emphasizing the need for scientific healing or treatment. Thus the new word sanatorium was born.

When the cure for TB was discovered, many sanitoriums shut down, though some were converted to general hospitals or specialized hospitals (ie. AIDS, mental health, etc.).

In many cases, "Sanitarium" is considered the proper American spelling of the word. "Sanatorium" is the British variant spelling. But many use the terms interchangeably to describe a psychiatric hospital or mental health facility.

I will be using the term _sanitarium_. (In part, because that is what is familiar to most. But also because I happen to be an oldschool-Metallica fan and their song "Welcome Home (Sanitarium)" makes use of the American spelling. lol) 

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 2: End of the Road<span>

The mess hall, cafeteria, or whatever you wanted to call it, had the potential to be the most interesting or the most irritating place in the facility. Dean found that it often times had a direct correlation to who happened to be inside.

Just now, Dean was trying to mind his own business and had no interest in 'mingling' with the locals. It was still early, only about 7:45 a.m. and he'd slept like shit last night. The last thing he needed was this asshole Gordon sitting down across from him, an antagonistic smile on his goddamn irritating face.

"'Morning, Winchester," he greeted cryptically.

Dean grunted and ignored him in favor of his eggs and some coffee that someone had to have been hung-over to make so poorly. Ah hell, it was better than nothing though. He usually drank it black but this stuff needed some extra TLC to be palatable. He poured some of the milk from his cereal into it, careful not to get any cornflakes in his mug. Yeah, he was too lazy to be bothered to get up for proper milk or creamer. Not to mention not being keen on leaving his food unsupervised, especially with Gordon here.

He was briefly amused that Kellogg's cornflakes were served here, having been spawned by some genius in a mental hospital, and that people all over the place were eating the same damn thing _he _was for breakfast before getting ready for work or school or whatever. All he was missing was the white picket fence. And freedom. And perhaps not having this self-important, goatee-sporting asshat staring him in the face, waiting for him to do something.

Dean took a big spoonful of cereal and shoveled it into his mouth, making a show out of chewing as he said, "'Sup, Gordon."

"You sure are taking things easy, Winchester," the dark-skinned man said ominously.

Gordon was a bit torqued in the head. He delivered every line like it had hidden meaning oozing out of every orifice, and that his bug-eyed intense looks were supposed to make you understand which one he meant to convey.

Seriously, seriously annoying this early in the morning.

"Ya want some toast, man?" Dean asked, mouth full of eggs this time. He waved a piece in Gordon's face, making the man lean back a touch. "No? Don't mind if I do." He took two huge bites, mouth now stuffed about to capacity. "MMm!" he said shaking his head as if this was the best damn meal of his life.

"Where's all the salt, Winchester?" Gordon asked in a low, threatening voice.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. He made short work of his food and swallowed. "...the fuck am I supposed to know?"

"You _know_."

"Coulda fooled me." Dean piled the rest of his eggs on his second piece of toast, spread with jelly, and rolled it like a burrito. He took a huge bite. The nuisance in front of him didn't budge. Gordon was being persistent today. Usually he gave up in disgust after witnessing a few minutes of gluttonous eating. _I'll have to work out extra later, _he thought distractedly. Working out gave him something to do at least. And if he ever got out of here, he wanted to get some action. The other reason he worked out is that he didn't want to get soft. It paid to be prepared.

"You're the one doing it."

Dean sighed explosively. "Doing _what_, Gordon? Trying to eat my goddamn breakfast? Guilty as charged."

"The shakers go missing. Sometimes they turn up empty." He leaned forward menacingly, dark eyes fixed. "I think," he said quietly, a serial killer look on his face, "_you're_ the one doing it."

"Really," Dean said, finishing off his 'burrito'. "That's funny," he said with his mouth full, raising his brows. "Because I have seen no shortage of salt in these parts." He picked up the salt shaker that was sitting on the table in front of him and shook some onto his last bit of food before popping it into his mouth. "Sugar, maybe," he amended with a shrug. There was severely limited mingling of the sexes here. Mostly the men and women were kept separate and lived on opposite ends of the facility.

He leaned back and swiped the salt shaker off the table behind him. It was full. "Oh, and look here," he said, putting it down next to the other salt shaker, "more salt."

Dean put his arms on the table and leaned forward aggressively with a hard gaze. "You got a problem with me? Why don't you just come out with it and quit _fucking around_?" His voice had been steadily growing louder. Other people were starting to watch the exchange, whispering and poking at each other.

Gordon noted the extra attention and decided to call it a draw. "We'll talk again later," he promised, getting up and swinging his leg over the bench seat. He kept his eyes on Dean with a glare the entire time, before spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room.

"_Anyone __**else**__ want some fucking salt?_" Dean called out loudly as he stood. Some of the diners shook their heads rapidly before turning around, and others just quickly found themselves occupied with anything other than getting caught meeting Dean's eyes. "Christ," he muttered, then pocketed the extra salt shaker from his table.

* * *

><p>Dean went back to his room and passed most of the day poring through the book he'd gotten from the p-doc. He was a little irritated with himself for mentioning his family at all during his session, but he'd been distracted and he felt more or less at ease around the new shrink.<p>

It was bad enough that Bobby knew some of the subject matter that caught his eye, but that couldn't be helped. He didn't have access to this kind of stuff anywhere else. He'd scoured the patient library. Nothing. He'd even caved and read some of the historical romance novels if they promised even a mention of the paranormal. (They were awful, by the way.) So when he saw the contents of Bobby's shelves, he couldn't help himself.

Sure, he'd compromised himself somewhat with his need to borrow these books and pore over them, but as long as he was careful and gave nothing else away, it could remain 'just an interest'.

Man, he really did not like bringing his family into this though. The less known about them, the better.

"Heya, Winchester," his roommate greeted as he walked in.

Dean nodded at him and kept reading. He was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall with the book balanced on his thighs.

"A little light reading?" Ed Zeddmore asked, pushing his glasses up his nose in a nervous gesture and snickering at his own joke.

Dean raised his eyes over the edge of the humongous book, giving the basement-pale, curly-haired guy a _'you've got to be kidding me' _look. "Hey man, kinda busy here," he said, going back to the book rather pointedly. Solitary was worse, he reminded himself. He may have a bugfuck potato-head for a roommate, but at least he had more liberties.

"What's it about?" Ed asked after a long pause.

"It's about a serial killer who only goes insane after playing the game 20 Questions."

Ed furrowed his brow. "Seems to be a pretty long book for that."

Dean felt like banging his head into the wall. Being civil could be such hard work. "Yeah, well apparently people didn't know when to leave well enough alone. So he had quite a career."

"What's his name?"

"I think it might be _Dean_."

Ed sniggered and pushed his glasses back into place. "That's funny, because your name is-" He broke off, noticing the _'no shit, Sherlock' _look Dean was giving him. "...Oh. Right. I get it." He laughed nervously. "I uh... forgot something in the library." He scrambled to leave the room, but poked his head back in long enough to say, "Catcha on the flip side."

Dean shook his head and tried to go back to reading. It was an effort.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, Dean was quite contentedly catching some shut-eye when a sound quite like the buzzing of a fly graced his ear.<p>

"Psst! Dean!"

Dean was steadily coming to hate his roommate. He could pick out that annoying voice anywhere. He did not care for this new skill. He cracked an eye open, still tired from his workout but nice and relaxed from the hot shower he'd taken afterwards, and realized he'd fallen asleep with 'The Tome' over his face. It was damn heavy. "What?" he asked, moving it aside and rubbing his eyes.

Judging by the quality of light in the room, it was late afternoon.

His stomach growled and he absently rubbed at it, changing his assessment to be in the arena of 4 p.m.

"Did you hear? There's a live one. Fresh meat?"

Dean gave the rotund teenager an unimpressed look. Ed had an annoying habit of trying to sensationalize everything. He also seemed to maintain a state of perpetual excitement. "A new resident?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying."

"Nope. Didn't hear and don't care."

Ed looked disappointed. "Really? But he's different. He's like... catatonic or something. They say he's been asleep for like a week."

"Wouldn't that be a coma?" Dean said disinterestedly as he wondered how excruciating the wait till dinner was likely to be.

Ed shrugged. "If it was, they wouldn't be bringing him in. His name's Campbell."

Dean frowned as the name jarred him. _Campbell... Where have I heard that before?_

"So, you wanna see him?" Ed asked restlessly. "This might be the only chance, as they're wheeling him in. Once he's in the room, he won't be coming out again unless he wakes up."

Dean was starting to feel restless as well. "Yeah, sure." He had time to kill before he could eat, and this guy's name was bugging him.

He followed Ed out of the room, slightly annoyed that he wasn't any taller than the curly-haired teenager. He looked around and didn't see any of the orderlies tailing him. It seemed they didn't have the resources to be on him 24-7, but they liked to follow him around and escorted him to and fro on specific occasions, such as visiting the shrink for his weekly sessions. He guessed they were less concerned with patient safety than they were with staff safety.

Regardless, they'd been giving him a longer leash since he'd been behaving himself. But that leash had gotten a lot longer since he'd been in Dr. Singer's care. Paulo usually did the escorting, but Dean suspected it was because they sort of got along.

Poor sap, trying to make friends with a resident.

Solitary had sucked. That's where they stuck him when he first got here. That's also where he heard about the tunnels. Originally they were a sort of corridor between buildings, through which patients were moved about, but mostly everything was done topside these days. One of the more easily aggravated 'guards' (he was technically an orderly) had let slip quite a lot of information in-between his rather creative threats for Dean to shut his pie hole. Dean did his god's honest best to piss the guy off, and had learned an awful lot in the process.

Eventually he had to let up though. They guy was a source of info and entertainment, but being stuck in a box with bars over the windows was starting to get to him.

One of these days, he was going to find a way to get down there and check things out. According to Dillan-the-pissed-off-orderly, there were not just corridors, but entire rooms underground. There were also strange ass stories of what they might have been used for and who might have died down there.

"Quick," Ed was saying, "over here."

Ed was waving him in the opposite direction of the main entrance. "What for? Don't they usually bring the new ones in through the front?"

"Yeah, but they have it blocked off." He indicated an amassing force of men in white coats and adjusted his glasses. "We won't get close. We'll have a better view from up there." He pointed to the second floor, just at the top of the split staircase that framed the high-ceilinged entryway.

"So, the back stairs then?" Dean anticipated.

Ed looked like he'd lost some of the wind in his sails. "Yeah, how'd you guess?"

Dean frowned at him. "Dude, it's pretty obvious that's the only way they wouldn't see you. If we go up the back stairs, we can get pretty close and then belly crawl the rest of the way. It'd be much harder for them to notice us if we're less than a foot tall versus running up the stairs _right in front of them_."

"You're pretty smart, Dean." Ed sounded like he was only just figuring this out. Dean wanted to climb to the top of the stairs and pitch him over the railing. Dumb fuck.

"Right then, let's go," he said instead. They were wasting time and he wanted to check out this Campbell character. He slow ran down the hall, keeping an eye out for anyone that might get in his way, residents or staff. Ed followed him, much less smooth about the entire affair, and slow to duck corners when suspicious persons were sighted.

They were nearly busted when Dillan passed by from the direction of the kitchens. Dillan, hard-assed Irishman that he was, would have detained them on principle. He loved to find Dean getting himself into trouble. Ed was slow on the uptake and he caught Dillan's eye.

"Hey - Zeddmore," the dangerous looking man with the crew-cut said. "What are you doing out over here?"

"N-Nothing," Ed stammered, just a few feet from where Dean was out of view. "W-We were just-"

"We?"

Dean could just make both of them out without giving himself away. Mostly it was Dillan in his line of sight. The Irishman looked suspicious as hell.

Ed laughed nervously and gestured vaguely to the air beside him as if he thought there was a 'person' there. "Yeah. We. Were just going to..."

"Going to gawk at the new guy?" Dillan finished, giving him a look that said he hated dealing with crazy folk whose idea of a good time was to go peek at other crazy folk.

"No," Ed drew out the word. "No, no, most definitely **not **that."

"Yeah, whatever, Zeddmore." Dillan ruffled a hand over his shorn hair with a bored expression. "Get going." He made a shooing motion. "And don't get caught doing anything you're not supposed to be doing."

"That was inspired," Dean said when the coast was clear and they'd resumed their trek.

Ed looked proud. "You think so?"

"Lucky for you he doesn't much care what kind of crazy anyone is, _and_ you seemed to catch him in a good mood. He would have dragged me off by the ear."

"Maybe he let me go because I look harmless."

"You _are _harmless." Unless you counted the mental anguish Ed could just by talking as a sort of violence.

"Are you sure?" Ed said fretfully. "How would you know?"

"I have a sixth sense about that kind of thing."

"Really?" Ed perked up. "I didn't know you were psychic, Dean!" he said in an excited whisper.

Dean regretted the number of steps it took to get the to the second floor.

Unlike Ed, Dean was able to belly crawl at a quick pace and was able to reach the end of the landing just as the gurney was wheeled in. A body, covered up to the shoulders with a blanket was strapped upon it. A ring of orderlies kept residents from entering by guarding the doorways that did not have doors. Some where threatening more boisterous residents with revocation of certain privileges. This seemed to be effective.

Dean got as close to the edge as he dared, straining to get a look at the new guy. It was still too far to see clearly. He'd have to wait until they wheeled him by, right beneath his current location. He'd picked this side for a reason. There hadn't been any patients visible on this end which meant they'd taken pains to clear everyone out and keep it cleared out.

_All right, all right,_ he thought as the procession got near to halfway between him an the main door. New guy was being wheeled though feet first, which would give him a better view of his face. _C'mon, Campbell, let's see what you're about._

Ed huffed as he crawled up next to Dean. "Did I miss anything?" he said too loudly.

"Shh!" Dean whispered. "Not yet." He turned his attention back to the ground floor, and sucked in a breath. He blinked rapidly as he looked on the patient's familiar face, and the long brunet bangs that waved back from it.

_Campbell._ Now it all made sense, the way that name hit him like buckshot. It was his mother's maiden name, and on that bed was none other than his brother!

"Ed," he said hoarsely. "What did you say the guy's first name was?"

"I didn't, but his name is Sam. Sam Campbell."

"_Shit,_" he cursed, scrambling up from his post, not caring if anyone saw him.

"Dean?" Ed said in a stage whisper. "Where are you going?"

Dean ignored him, making for the back stairs as panic battered at the inside of his head. Sam was catatonic? What in the hell had happened? What was he doing in here of all places? Why wasn't he in California, where he'd been going to school? Michigan wasn't exactly a stone's throw away. It didn't make any sense!

He burst into the hallway from the stairs, skidding slightly on the floor, and ran towards the atrium. It wasn't the best of ideas, but he knew he wouldn't be getting through any of the doors they'd locked to close off the corridor they were taking Sam through. He reached the crowd flocking the open door, elbowing past the other residents while he evaluated the weakest link in the chain of three orderlies keeping them at bay. He slammed between the two on the left, clipping the one on the end which gave him an opening to dodge the center guy's grasping arm.

His mind was racing, trying to make sense of Sam on that gurney. It faltered on the thought of Sam never opening his eyes again. Interspersed with that was images of the last time he'd seen his brother, out near Sanford Uni. Everything had been okay. He'd been in one piece, had looked good, healthy, mentally sound. Granted, that had been a few years ago._ What happened? What happened to you? _

He could just make out the procession in the hall ahead of him when a vise clamped around his neck. "All right, Winchester," Dillan said in his ear as he put Dean into a choke-hold. "That's far enough."

"You don't understand," Dean ground out, trying to break the Irishman's solid grip which also happened to be a deterrent to breathing. "That's my brother in there."

"I don't care if he's the Queen of France, Winchester," the orderly said with an incredulous laugh, voice slightly strained with the effort of keeping him in check. "You are _not _going in there."

"Please," Dean said as his vision started to go splotchy. "I have to-"

Dean's body went limp as he blacked out and Dillan hoisted it over his shoulder. Damn, but Winchester weighed more than he looked. His compact frame was like solid muscle.

"Hey, Dillan," one of his fellow workers said from where they were actively herding people down the hall. "What did you do, finally lose your cool and choke Winchester out? Bet you've been waiting a damn long time to do that."

The Irishman shook his head. "I dunno, it was weird. I've never seen him act like that. He's been playing his cards real close to his chest for a while now. Seemed like he wanted to gnaw my arm off."

"You'll wanna go report that to his p-doc. Who's got him? Singer?"

"Yeah, I think so. Hey, Richardson, you wanna help me out here? Dude's fuckin' heavy."

"Naw, I'm good," the dark-haired orderly answered, "fun as that looks. Want me to hold any doors open for ya?"

"Bite me," Dillan said, readjusting his load with a glare.

He was probably going to get into trouble with the way he'd handled this. But with Winchester's record, he couldn't exactly let him run loose. Especially not when he was acting all weird. Brother indeed. He couldn't have even gotten a clear shot to look at the new guy's face. Besides, they didn't even have the same last name.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:** Chapter title is from the song "End of the Road" by Infected Mushroom. (Can you sense a theme here? Lol. It's very likely I'll be naming all the chapters with this convention, but I am picking the songs according to mood or mood/lyric content to fit with the story.)


	4. Saeed

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 3: Saeed<span>

Dean winced against the pounding of his head. Something felt off, but he couldn't find it in him to even open his eyes. His brain felt like it had been on the wrong end of a meat grinder.

He remembered Dillan putting him in a choke hold... He'd been running past him to...

_**Sam.**_

Dean's eyes flew open and he jerked upright. Or, tried to. He seemed to be in the infirmary, restrained upon the bed he was lying in. Frustration seared through him. _Now is not the time for this shit! _He strained at the straps, trying to find some give so he could work his way out.

"Nice to see you awake, Winchester."

Dean growled in the back of his throat.

One of the assistant psychiatrists was looking down at him blandly. He wasn't particularly tall, short, skinny or fat. He wasn't particularly anything, except his eye sometimes carried an odd gleam of what looked like envy. The brunet man would have looked young and even wholesome if it weren't for the strangely expansive full beard he wore which looked so out of place on him. It was Dr. Kubrick's crony, the one who'd been overseeing his 'medication' while Kubrick oversaw his case remotely. This guy, he was a real dick, just like Kubrick.

"As you can see, we found it might be prudent to restrain you, especially given your track record," Dr. Walter's voice was softly chiding. His eyes said he thought this was a riot. "We were afraid you might hurt others. We were afraid you would hurt yourself." He smiled apologetically. "We just want what's in _your _best interests."

_MY best interests?_

"What's my cocktail this time, Doc?" Dean sneered with an answering smile that was equally insincere. He was still pulling at his bonds, the urge to smash Walter's face in becoming overwhelming. He didn't feel right.

"Oh, I think you'll find it already chugging away in your system, making you right again."

Dean gritted his teeth, feeling a small surge of panic as his hostility spiked. "Where's Dr. Singer?" Were they going to work him over like last time? Would they get their hands back on him, taking him out of Bobby's care? He'd just been starting to feel normal again!

"Dr. Singer is off for the next few days. He left the facility today at 3:30 p.m." The bearded assistant doctor informed him pleasantly. "Don't worry; we'll be taking good care of you."

"I don't need taken care of," Dean bit out. "I'm fine. And I have a right to know what medications you're giving me."

Walter came over and sat down on the bed. His presence there was infuriating. Dean could hardly stand it, or tolerate the feeling of the bed dipping beneath the man's weight. "Dean, Dean, Dean," the man said, shaking his head bemusedly. "You, of course, know about every single medication noted in your file."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "And what about those that you aren't reporting?"

Walter laughed. "What are you trying to imply there?"

"Exactly what you think."

"Careful, Winchester." Walter's eyes held a subtle glitter above his professional smile. "You can't prove anything, not with your word against ours. You'll just wind up looking more paranoid and delusional than you already are."

"I'll kill you if I ever get the chance," Dean said darkly.

"Do you mind if I put that in your file?" Dr. Walter asked amiably, poising a pen above the small notebook he carried. "I think it would be a nice addition, a real winner for placing you back in solitary. You were happy there, I wager?"

"Yeah, it was fucking great."

Walter snapped his notebook shut, aiming a wide smile his way. "What a life. Helping people attain their full potential. There's nothing else like it." He shook his head ruefully. "Now then." He produced a small syringe from the pocket of his white jacket. Removing the cap, he held it up and then tapped it to make any air bubbles surface the depressed the plunger enough to force some of the liquid from the needle's metal tip. "I'll just leave you with a parting gift and let you get some rest."

* * *

><p>"Dean?" a voice faded in from nowhere. "Dean?" It was faint, like it was coming in through a layer of cotton balls.<p>

He couldn't place it, but his body was already reacting, breaking out into a cold sweat as if the voice was coming from beyond the grave. And here he was, strapped to a bed and drugged half out of his mind. Helplessness echoed the thought and made him absolutely furious.

"Dean."

He felt something brush his face. Something cold, clammy. His muscles jerked, and he knew his arms and legs were still securely strapped down. _Jesus. _He was trapped. His fists clenched and re-clenched uselessly.

"Dean, are you in there?"

Suddenly, bright light was shining into his naked eye, the lids being held open. "G...Get away...from me," he ground out, throat working reflexively.

"Dean, it's Dr. Singer. Can you understand me?"

"Bo..bby?" he wasn't sure if he should believe it. Though it did sort of sound like him.

He heard the doctor sigh in response. "Or 'Robert'," he corrected. "But I guess I'll let it go this time."

Dean was sure then, that this was Bobby, all right. He'd always gotten a kick out of the doctor's lack of enthusiasm over his nickname. Bobby was a good sport about it, though.

"Dean, can you open your eyes?"

"I dunno, they don't seem to be thrilled at the prospect."

"All right then. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I..." Dean paused. "I don't seem to remember at the moment." He wasn't sure what he should say. Surely Bobby could see there was something wrong with him, but would he assume that this was a sort of relapse? _Would he believe it if I told him about Walter? _Or did Walter have a point? Would he be written off as paranoid and delusional?

Goddamn, he felt tired.

"Dean, I'm going to let you sleep," Bobby's voice faded in and out. "I'll be back later to check on you."

* * *

><p>When Dean woke up again, he felt a bit better. He also found that he could sit up, so he did so right away. It made his head swim violently.<p>

"Hey, take it easy, tiger."

Firm hands were pushing him back down onto the bed. They belonged to his favorite goon, Paulo. He groaned as his stomach suddenly began cramping up with hunger. "C'mon, let me up, man, I got stuff to do."

"Like what, Winchester? Can't be to take a piss, they got you all hooked up." The solidly built orderly indicated the IVs in his arm and Dean realized they must have him cathed. He tried to move the blankets aside to double check but the full body straps had been swapped for wrist restraints. He could sit up all right, but he wasn't going anywhere. His legs were as immobile as before.

Paulo moved the blanket aside slightly so Dean could see the edge of the catheter bag strapped to his leg.

_Christ. _Caths really bugged the shit out of him. Not to mention, it seemed overkill for being in here for a few hours. "I'm hungry."

"Yeah, I'll bet you are, being on liquids for days. But they'll just send a tray down now that you're with it." Paulo picked up his radio and made the call.

_Days?_ Dean frowned. "What do you mean 'days'? I've only been here a few hours."

"Nope. Dr. Singer was already gone when they brought you in and you were still out of it when he came back. And I happen to know that he was not in the entire weekend."

"So, it's Monday?" Dean asked, trying to get his bearings.

Paulo shook his head. "Tuesday. Doc came to see you Monday but said you needed to sleep it off."

"Shit."

"No kidding. What'd you do this time?"

_Just tried to see what the hell brought my brother in here like that, strapped to a cart like he was a corpse. _Dean suddenly did not feel like talking. At least not to anyone but Bobby. This was personal. "Where's Singer?"

Thinking about Sam was making him restless. Worse than restless. Especially since several days had slipped past since he'd seen Sam's face, and had tried to get to him. He needed to make sure Sammy was ok. _What if he's woken up while I was stuck in here? _Fear overrode some of his anxiety at their first meeting in over 10 years. He was half out of his mind with worry and being prevented from acting according to his instincts was making him hostile. Maybe Bobby could get him unlooped and he could try again to get in to see Sam. But there was absolutely nothing he could do from this bed.

"He'll be back this afternoon."

"I'll be waiting."

* * *

><p>"Good afternoon, Dean," Dr. Singer greeted him as he came in the room. "How are you feeling?"<p>

"Like Miss America. Can you get me the hell out of here already? It's driving me nuts and I can't even get a proper fucking meal. If they hand me one more fucking fruit cup, I swear to god-"

"Something's bothering you." Bobby pulled up a chair, checked his vitals and shone the light into his eyes again. "I haven't seen you like this before."

"I just want out," he said shortly.

Dean tried to put Sammy from his mind, but the more he tried, the more he thought about it, and the angrier he was that he was being kept from him. He was pissed at being kept here, pissed at Dillan, pissed at med-happy Walker, and he guessed just pissed off in general. It was all accompanied by a fluffy haziness that felt like dementia.

If he told Bobby about Sam, would it help or make things worse? Agitation fizzled through his protesting body. He couldn't stand it.

"What's wrong, Dean? Be honest."

Dean grit his teeth. "It's..." It really went against his instincts to say anything at all, but the words were starting to slip out. "It's Sammy. He's... I don't know what happened, but he's my brother and I saw him come in." He shook his head. "What the hell did they put me on? I feel like shit."

"Anti-depressants, and anti-psychotics."

"What the hell for?" He wanted to shout. "I'm human, shouldn't I be allowed to react to things? Are _you_ going to medicate my brains out if I show a flicker of anything you don't think you like?" Was his trust in Bobby unfounded? Did he agree with what they'd done?

"Dean, I want to level with you here," Dr. Singer said frankly. "I have been re-evaluating your medications and weaning you off of the ones I feel were causing your aggression to get the better of you, and with good results. But erratic behavior is always cause for alarm, especially in cases like yours. We don't want any accidents. Even at your best, you have poor impulse control-"

"So does 80% of the population," he retorted.

Dr. Singer said nothing for a moment. "Are you finished? May I continue?"

"Only if you can do something about these meds that are making the inside of my head feel like strawberry shortcake land. I feel like I'm stuck in the mind of a 5 year old girl. It's creeping me out."

"I'll tell you what. I'll do the minimum preventative drug therapy I am allowed. In return, I need you to be on your best behavior."

"Seems like a rotten deal for me."

"Well, I suppose it might look that way, but I know something you don't know."

Dean looked suspicious. "Yeah? What's that?"

"If you show some sort of consistent stability, I think it's possible they'll let you visit Sam."

"What?" Dean was all alert and tense. "Why? Why would they do that?"

"Well, in cases of catatonia, things or people that are familiar can sometimes bring sufferers out of it. You're family. We did a blood test to verify you are related, though this information has not been released to the entire staff. They weren't sure of anything at first, only that your brother had a note on him when he was brought in. The only thing on it was your first name, the name of this facility and the state." He watched Dean for a reaction. "So, what do you say?"

Dean dropped his head back on the pillow, utterly floored. "Ok, you have a deal."

"Oh, but there is one other thing."

Dean closed his eyes briefly, face not betraying any emotion he might have been feeling. He gave the doctor an expectant, deadpan look, lips twisting briefly. "And that would be?"

"He can't be told anything about his accident. At least not yet. His memory, if he wakes up, is bound to be hazy for a while. It has been suggested that you pretend you know nothing, at least for a time, so he isn't shocked back into it. The longer he spends conscious and responsive, the slimmer the chance is that he will lapse back into a catatonic state."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"You could pretend you aren't related, so that you won't be seen as a source of information."

"Uh, yeah. You think he'll fall for that?"

"I don't know. How important is it to you that he remains awake, if he wakes up at all?"

Dean glared at him. "What do you mean 'if'? Of course he's gonna wake up."

"Of course," Dr. Singer said placatingly.

* * *

><p><em>One and a half weeks later...<em>

It was a lazy afternoon and several of the residents were playing a friendly game of cards with some severely high stakes.

"Hey, Dean," one of the older residents said, a frown twitching on his face. "Anybody ever tell you that you eat a lot?"

"Mn? Mrelly?" Dean was playing with his cards in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He laid the sandwich down on his knee while he grabbed a handful of Cheetos from the bag he'd just won from the guy. He was in good spirits, this being his 5th winning hand in a row.

"Yeah," a bulky guy with a shaved head said hostilely. "And you cheat." This garnered nods from the rest of the group.

"Ladies," Dean laughed. "I do _not _cheat."

"I miss women," a guy that had somehow gotten dubbed 'Pokey' said glumly. "I don't know why I signed myself into this place."

"Because," said a 20-something biker that went by the name Garnet, "in addition to your shit memory, you were a hopeless klepto-stalker." He had a serious expression and a long black ponytail that was bound with many hair ties, evenly spaced all the way down, and looked like he might be part Native American. Dean wasn't quite sure on why he was in here unless he was severely OCD or something.

"I did not steal stuff!" Pokey claimed indignantly.

"Yes, you did," argued Garnet without any inflection in his voice. "And you still do. I want my dreamcatcher back."

"Well, seeing as I don't _have_your dream whatsit feathery thing-"

"It was a gift from my late grandmother. Your turn, Dean."

Dean played a card and dug into the bag of Cheetos. Card games could sometimes be quite entertaining, even without the winning. He usually kept his mouth shut and enjoyed the show.

"Well," Pokey said sullenly, "my point was, I miss getting laid."

"Don't see that changing just by you gettin' outta here, son," Garth, the older guy with a cloud of ginger colored Einstein-like hair, commented.

Pokey played his card with a monumental frown on his face. "Would it kill them to let us get a little action?"

"You know," Jared drawled, "you could always just bat for the other team. Prolly some guys here that are hard up enough for it." Jared was a mean-looking weight-lifter with a shaved head. He could pretty much say whatever the hell he wanted and no one had the balls to challenge him on it. He was also about the last guy in the world that would be interested in other dudes. Dean suspected that underneath that burly exterior, he had quite a sense of humor.

Pokey looked horrified. "The hell you say to me?"

Jared played a card. "Just sayin'. If you're gonna waste time bitching about something you can't change, I'm more than happy to point out a solution. 'Course, it don't matter to me if you'd rather wear out your right hand."

Pokey turned 4 shades of red.

"Well, **I** mind," Garnet said, "seeing as I have to share a room with him."

"Maybe he's in denial," Garth added with a twitter of a laugh. "Better watch your ass, Garnet. Since he's already started taking your shit, maybe you're next."

"Yeah, right, Pokey's a bitch," Garnet mused, regarding his cards and planning his next move. "No way he'd get the jump on someone. Besides, if he even tried, I'd break both his hands."

"Pretty rough stuff," Jared said to Pokey. "What would you do without your girlfriend or your backup girlfriend?"

"Guess he'd have to hope someone in here was desperate enough to do his sorry ass," Dean said, adding to the smaller man's horror. "Read 'em an' weep, boys," he said as he won the game. _Score one more for team Winchester,_ he thought with a smirk.

"God dammit," Jared cursed. He glared at Dean as he dug into his back pocket and then slapped a small box into the spikey-haired man's hand. "Motherfucker, I should crush your spine. That was my last pack of smokes."

"Want to come outside and watch me smoke one later?" Dean asked with a charming lift of his brows.

"Ass," Jared muttered. "I don't know why I even play with you."

Dean smiled as he got up and stretched. "Beats the hell out of me. Unless it's because I'm one of the few assholes who actually use the gym and can spot you."

Jared nodded with a so-help-me-god expression upon his face.

Dean grabbed his winnings off of the table, piling them into his arms. Snacks, smokes, a shirt or two, some cash, hair gel, and a novel by Nelson DeMille that Garth had only gotten to read the first half of. It was a good lot.

"Off already?" Garnet asked.

"Yeah. Stuff to do."

"I hear you've been visiting someone," Pokey said, piping up now that he had a chance to put someone else in the hot seat. "One of the patients here."

"You don't say," Dean said as if it was a revelation. "You find out who it is, be sure to let me know."

Pokey deflated a little in his confusion.

"There's a rumor you're in to see that sleep-case Campbell," Garth said.

"Well hey, it's a good cover, then," Dean said glibly. "They'll never miss me as I'm pleasing the ladies in the east wing." He wasn't ready to say anything about Sam. Not yet. Maybe after he woke up, it would be clearer how he could handle things. Should he let anyone know they were related? That would explain the time he was spending with Sam, but... he had a few hostiles that might take out their aggression on his brother to spite him, and he didn't want that.

"Why would they let you in there?" Pokey asked.

"In where?" Jared said.

"In either place," Pokey insisted. "But I meant Campbell's room."

"Why? You interested?" Jared ribbed him. "I heard he's pretty, for a guy." As Pokey spluttered, the weight-lifter looked up at Dean. "What do _you _think, Winchester?"

Dean shrugged. "Sorry. Not my type."

The bickering continued even after he left and he was glad to be out of there. Their joking was all in good fun, but they were getting a little too close to the truth.

He stopped by his room, grateful that he no longer had to share it with Ed, to drop off his winnings. Since his supposed 'psychotic break' the day Sam was brought in, he'd had to endure the drastic change in the medications he was being forced to take, but the plus side to it was that he now had a room to himself. He guessed staffers were worried he might kill Ed in his sleep. Which anyone might have wanted to do even on a good, sane day.

He dumped the stuff onto his mattress and then got on his knees to check under the bed. The line was mostly intact. He adjusted it a little then nodded and got to his feet. Dusting his hands off, he looked around the room. He'd go to see Sam in a few minutes, but first, he needed to do a couple things. He'd go wash up, brush his teeth and all that jazz, then swing by the cafeteria to see if he could make some more salt shakers go mysteriously missing. He needed at least one more aside from the one in his jacket.

There wasn't a lot of action at this facility, but you couldn't be too careful. Besides, he had heard a few ghost stories.

* * *

><p>Dean used the key they'd given him to enter Sam's room. They monitored the hall pretty frequently, checking this room at least every 30 minutes. He wasn't sure when the last pass was, so he would have to work quickly. He dropped to his knees and crawled partway under the bed, reaching into his jacket for one of the salt shakers. The rubber stopper in the bottom came out pretty easily, and he continued the line he'd begun drawing 2 days ago, tracing the perimeter of the bed, just far enough in that no one should notice it unless they stooped down.<p>

When the salt shaker was empty, he plugged it and put it into his jacket, grabbing out the other one and repeating the process.

As he thought, it took the full 2 salt shakers to finish the line. That left him with one spare for emergencies, the one he carried on him at all times. Couldn't be too careful. The last thing he needed was a spiritual intervention. Same went for Sammy. Only he was in a compromised state, so he was much more at risk.

Dean came out from under the bed, feeling a lot better at finally being able to complete the protective ring of salt. He'd like if he could get a hold of some chalk, but he hadn't yet located anyone that had any.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at his brother. "You're a regular sleeping beauty, you know that?" he said to Sam. "The guys are all talking about you and you haven't even met anyone yet. Guess you make quite an impression."

Sam was still, and not even a muscle twitched in response. His face was like a smooth mask. Untouchable. Dean reached out to poke it. "Bitch," he said softly, missing the comeback that would have been sure to follow if Sam had been awake to hear him.

Little Sammy had been so upset the first time he'd called him that, turning red and thrusting out that bottom lip so far you could hang something on it. It was adorable. _'I am not a bitch,' _he'd informed his older brother with a mighty glare. _'You... jerk.' _Their mom had flipped when she found out, catching them in the middle of that kind of exchange on more than one occasion. Which was hilarious. After a time, the bitch/jerk thing had become a sort of in-joke for them.

Dean sighed and got to his feet, the silence getting to him more than usual this time.

_I'll come back tomorrow, early,_ he thought as he got up and let himself out, feeling bad about having such an abbreviated visit. "'Night, Sammy." He turned off the light and let himself out.

He didn't see Sam's lips move, or hear the faint word, hardly louder than a breath as his brother unconsciously uttered, "Jerk."

* * *

><p>Dean tossed and turned that night in his room. Sleep was just damn elusive at times. On nights like these, he would have loved to go outside, wander around the expansive grove of oak trees that this place was named for. Or, at the least, get out of this room and stretch his legs in the halls. But that wasn't possible. They were locked up nice and tight in their rooms at lights out. Not a good system to be on if you were a night owl, which Dean was.<p>

It was eating away at him, he'd just realized tonight, that he was starting to wonder if Sam was ever going to wake up. He'd had some half-deluded notion that after a day or two, Sam would pop out of it like a daisy and they could have the full on awkward reunion they were owed.

Dean rubbed his hands over his face. What was he going to tell Sam after that, about Mom, or his girlfriend? Nobody was really sure what had even happened. All they know is that the two were on the unwitting end of a bloodbath, and that Sam was brought in, in pretty rough shape himself, by a man claiming to be his father.

According to Dr. Singer, after Sam's condition stabilized, the physicians at the general hospital realized he was showing signs of '_comatoid catatonia'._Dean had committed the words to memory, but it was just bunch of mumbo jumbo to him. Apparently it was a comatose state that didn't have a medical cause and could have been brought on by an emotional shock to his system. Like a deadly level of stress that made parts of a person just shut off.

They'd had no way to contact the man who'd brought Sam in, and the police apparently had no luck locating John Winchester, whom they'd found, with some digging, to be his father. All that left was the note. Dean guessed that they might as well bring Sam where his surviving family was being kept. Probably why they did the blood test, to see who 'Dean' was supposed to be.

Their mom's death came as a shock... but he wasn't all that broken up about it. Sometimes he'd missed her over the years. But he'd never forget her looking him in the eye, telling him he was just like his father, and walking out on them. Are you supposed to forgive something like that? He wasn't sure, but forgiveness was going to be a long time in coming. Still, he hadn't hated his mom. Maybe resented her a little, but he certainly hadn't wanted to see her dead.

But Sam was different. He'd lived with her since he was 10. How hard must that have been for him? And his girlfriend, too... That had to have been rough.

Dean rolled over and faced the wall. He wondered absently if Sammy was more upset over mom or his girlfriend. Was it the same girl he'd seen in that cafe a few years back? Could it have been serious?

The thought unsettled him. He chose not to dwell upon it.

Instead, he considered the circumstances of the deaths. Had something attacked them in the park that day? Was that why Dad had been there? It was possible he'd been hunting something and followed it there. Or was it a fluke and just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Like finding yourself on the wrong end of a crazy bastard's knife? Maybe it was just some psycho serial killer deal.

"Mn," he groaned aloud, brow furrowing as he found his mind drifting back to the girlfriend. He needed a distraction. He obviously wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon.

He rolled over and got up, going to the small, bolted down dresser that held his clothes and some odds and ends. Rifling through one of the drawers, he pulled out a flashlight he'd won in a game of poker. He put the penlight in his teeth and grabbed Bobby's big ass book off the top of the dresser. He could at least read while he waited for dawn.

He put it on the bed, flopping onto his stomach and training the flashlight upon it. He was on a page that was discussing what modern day medicine had dubbed "Rip Van Winkle Syndrome," where the afflicted could fall asleep for days, months, even years. It was attributed here to tree spirits who sapped the life force from someone. Even so, the affect was the same. One might awaken to find everything in their life had changed. Spouses, friends, or family might be dead or had moved on. He flipped past the rest of it, not wanting to dwell on that sort of thing. Sam was going to wake up. He _would_.

He skipped to another section, trying to take in what it was saying. After a few minutes, the words began to swim before his eyes.

"Wake up, damn, you," he said into the empty room. He covered his eyes with his hand. "Just wake the hell up already. Sam."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - "Saeed"**

I feel ashamed, again and again  
>Nothing to give, and no-one to blame<br>During the day, I guess I'm OK  
>[x5]<p>

At night  
>I sit by your side<br>Waiting for you, to give me a sign  
>I'm counting the days<br>And have nothing to say

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh I hope I can chill and stay the same  
>Stop the bleed inside and feel again<br>Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins  
>I've got nothing to say to you<br>I hope I can chill and stay the same  
>Stop the bleed inside and feel again<br>Cut the chain of lies I've been beating and beating and beating myself...

I feel ashamed, again and again, nothing to give, no one to blame, during the day  
>I guess I'm OK<br>At night, I sit by your side  
>Waiting for you, to give me a sign<br>I'm counting the days, and have nothing to say

(cut the chain of lies, you've been feeding my veins)  
><em>[x6]<em>

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh I hope I can chill and stay the same  
>Stop the bleed inside and feel again<br>Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins  
>I've got nothing to say to you<br>I hope I can chill and stay the same  
>Stop the bleed inside and feel again<br>Cut the chain of lies I've been beating and beating and beating myself...

I hope I can chill and stay the same  
>Stop the bleed inside and feel again<br>Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins  
>I've got nothing to say to you<br>I hope I can chill and stay the same  
>Stop the bleed inside and feel again<br>Cut the chain of lies I've been beating myself without nothing to say to you, nothing to say to you

-  
><strong>Extra Song Bonus! <strong>I couldn't help but make a reference in the fic to "Institutionalized" by Suicidal Tendencies. This song and band are awesome. Youtube it. (The lyrics are hella long, so I won't post the all here. Plus you really _have_to hear the delivery. But here is part:)

**Suicidal Tendencies - "Institutionalized**"

I was in my room and I was just like staring at the wall thinking about everything.  
>But then again, I was thinking about nothing<br>And then my mom came in and I didn't even know she was there.  
>She called my name and I didn't hear her and then she started screaming: MIKE! MIKE!<p>

And I go:  
>What, what's the matter?<p>

She goes:  
>What's the matter with you?<p>

I go:  
>There's nothing wrong mom.<p>

She's all:  
>Don't tell me that, you're on drugs!<p>

I go:  
>No, mom, I'm not on drugs. I'm okay. I was just thinking, you know, why don't you get me a Pepsi?<p>

She goes:  
>NO, you're on drugs!<p>

I go:  
>Mom, I'm okay, I'm just thinking.<p>

She goes:  
>No, you're not thinking, you're on drugs! Normal people don't be acting that way!<p>

I go:  
>Mom, just get me a Pepsi, please.<br>_All I want is a Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me._  
><em>All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me!<em>  
><em>Just a Pepsi!<em>

They give you a white shirt with long sleeves  
>Tied around you're back, you're treated like thieves<br>Drug you up because they're lazy  
>It's too much work to help a crazy<p>

I'm not crazy - Institution  
>You're the one who's crazy - Institution<br>You're driving me crazy - Institution  
>They stuck me in an institution,<br>Said it was the only solution,  
>to give me the needed professional help,<br>to protect me from the enemy - Myself

I was sitting in my room when my mom and my dad came in and they pulled up a chair and they sat down.

They go:  
>Mike, we need to talk to you.<p>

And I go:  
>Okay what's the matter?<p>

They go:  
>Me and your mom have been noticing lately that you've been having a lot of problems,<br>And you've been going off for no reason and we're afraid you're going to hurt somebody,  
>And we're afraid you're going to hurt yourself.<br>So we decided that it would be in you're best interest if we put you somewhere  
>Where you could get the help that you need.<p>

And I go:  
><em>Wait, what are you talking about, WE decided!<em>  
><em>MY best interests? How do you know what MY best interest is?<em>  
><em>How can you say what MY best interest is? What are you trying to say, I'M crazy?<em>  
><em>When I went to YOUR schools, I went to YOUR churches,<em>  
><em>I went to YOUR institutional learning facilities? So how can you say I'M crazy?<em>

They say they're gonna fix my brain  
>Alleviate my suffering and my pain<br>But by the time they fix my head  
>Mentally I'll be dead<p>

I'm not crazy - Institution  
>You're the one who's crazy - Institution<br>You're driving me crazy - Institution  
>They stuck me in an institution,<br>Said it was the only solution,  
>to give me the needed professional help,<br>to protect me from the enemy - Myself

Doesn't matter, I'll probably get hit by a car anyways.


	5. Killing Time

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 4: Killing Time<span>

_Two months later..._

Dr. Robert Singer was relaxing in his office when rapid knocking burst upon his door. He consulted his watch, seeing that it was still early for his 10 a.m. appointment. "Come in?" he said.

Paulo, the orderly poked his head in. "You have a few minutes, Doc?"

Dr. Singer ran a hand over his greying beard. "Is Winchester with you?" he guessed.

"Yeah. He wanted to come early for some reason."

"It's fine."

Paulo moved from the doorway and ushered in his charge.

"Heya, Bobby." Dean greeted him as he slid into the room and sat sloppily in one of the available chairs. He certainly had a way of sprawling that made him look like he was lying on a bed instead of actually sitting in a chair.

"That's Robert, or Dr. Singer. Dean, we've talked about this."

"Sure, sure," the young man said congenially with a fat smile upon his face. "Whatever you say." It was obvious he took great joy in trying to harass him with the informal nickname.

Dr. Singer internally shook his head as he got more settled.

"So, listen, Doc," Dean said brightly, leaning forward in his chair. "I have great news!"

"Oh? And what might that be?" 'News', he ruminated absently, could be the most trivial of matters to his patients, such as discovering a new crack in the wall, or hearing that a new side dish was going to be served in the cafeteria. Or, depending on the patient, it could be something that was all in their head. It didn't really matter what it was. As long as it was important to them, his job was to show interest and not minimalize their feelings. It was a good sign when they wanted to share information with him, confide in him. It showed trust and that was key to his being able to help them.

Of course, he did expect more from the young man in front of him than an accounting of cracked plaster. But he would refrain from further expectations. There had been days where he wasn't sure whether Dean didn't suffer from general delusions, but it was still something that was hard to pin down. He was pretty closed-lipped about important things.

There was an intense gleam in Dean's eyes as he said , "Sammy's waking up today."

Dr. Singer tapped a pencil against his leg. Sam Campbell, Dean's brother, was suffering a sort of '_comatoid catatonia'_, a condition that is diagnosed only after the common medical/neurological etiologies of a coma had been considered and ruled out. Catatonia as a psychiatric coma was rare, but not unheard of. It could arise from many different sources such as depression, emotional or psychological trauma, or even as a symptom of a condition such as schizophrenia. It was undetermined as to what the cause was in Sam's case. As such, treatment was difficult.

Sam had entered the hospital a little over 2 months ago. He'd shown signs of cognizance, yet had not regained a wakeful state in this time.

He was afraid that it was having an affect on Dean's stability. Around 3 weeks after he'd started visiting his brother in his room, Dean had seemed to suffer a breakdown. Nothing overt to the casual observer, at least not at first, except for a tendency to avoid others. But as time passed and there was no change in Sam's condition, Dean got worse. His behavior and speech had become vague and a little odd and he started to avoid others entirely. He spent a good portion of his time holed up in Sam's room and could be openly hostile if anyone so much as mentioned his brother or leaving his side. Robert suspected that they had been very close and that the pressure had finally gotten to him. Unfortunately, he'd had to alter Dean's medication to compensate for it. This exacerbated the strange behavior, but Dean now seemed to be eating and taking better care of himself, and was not as adverse to socializing as before.

If Sam did ever regain consciousness, it was quite possible that Dean would recover completely and the medication could once more be reduced or eliminated. However, this idea that Sam was going to wake up soon might just be another flight of fancy. He'd seen the cycle of depression, denial and hopefulness plenty of times.

"What makes you so sure?" he asked the dark-haired young man.

"I just know. I visit him everyday, you see." He seemed proud over this fact. "So I can just tell." His head tilted in challenge, as if he was expecting he might be argued with.

Dr. Singer nodded, deciding to go for a positive note. Who was he to say it wouldn't happen? It _was_ possible. Just not likely. Either way, Dean needed his hope. "Well, if he does wake soon, I look forward to speaking with him."

"Not before I do." Dean said warningly, eyes sharpening and body language becoming closed. "I found out first. It's my right."

Robert didn't argue with him but made note of the aggression and over-protectiveness. "You will be his first visitor," he confirmed and Dean visibly relaxed.

The doctors, himself included, would naturally need to see Sam first and make assessments. But there was no need to tell Dean 'no' and upset him further. He really would be the first 'visitor' after all. Just not the first person to interact with Sam. It was best to find ways to say 'yes' to the patients whenever possible. It let them maintain stability and calm which was better for them.

* * *

><p>Sam felt like he was going to be sick. His head felt like hell and he was horribly disoriented. He clutched the sheets as a wave of nausea and a detached wave of panic lapped at him.<p>

He'd woken up a few minutes ago in a room he'd never seen before, stomach gurgling emptily and his throat on fire. His vision was also blurry. Still, he could make out that the room was square, had a window on one end to his right and had short vertical blinds along the wall behind him and wrapping around to his left where there was a door. They only went about halfway down the wall from the ceiling and seemed to indicate somebody having some odd taste for placing windows.

Upon inspection, he was also hooked up to a bunch of tubes and a few wires. They really bugged him, just seeing them sticking out of him, so he started pulling them out. The medical tape really hurt when he pulled it up off of his inner arm but he winced more over the sight of the needle with its flexible plastic wings that he had to slide out of his vein. It made his knees go kind of weak and his head start to spin. There was another sticking out of the top of his left hand, and he got rid of that one, too.

He guessed that if he was hooked up to this much equipment, and had no idea how he got here, he was probably out of it enough that they might have him on a catheter. He shuddered. Seriously, medical shit could really freak him out.

He took a deep breath and flipped the blankets off of his lap and did indeed find himself so endowed. "Oh, god," he said as his stomach protested the thought of the tube that had a direct line to his bladder being put in, or being pulled out again. "Great."

Sure, he was smart enough for med school but there were more than a few reasons he chose law. One of those reasons was currently staring him in the face. He was squeamish as hell about stuff like this.

There were more tubes on the catheter contraption than he'd expected, as well as a valve, and even a balloon-like thingy. It definitely looked like something that needed expertise to remove. He had the urge to just try getting rid of the thing himself, but he was afraid of either passing out mid-effort, or permanently damaging his own equipment. He flipped the blanket back over himself and turned his head away quickly, eyes wide, jaw set and expression somewhat blank as he tried not to think about it. Tried to forcibly to forget its existence.

His eyes started roving the room again after the initial panicked feeling subsided. It was very white in here. The room, the blankets and sheets, his hospital gown. At least, he thought it was a hospital gown.

"Where's a nurse when you need one?" he said in a voice that was raspy with under use. He looked for a nurse's call button. They ought to be able to get this thing off of him, and the sooner the better. But he couldn't find one. Another oddity was the lack of a television mounted near the ceiling. All hospital rooms had those these days, didn't they? There were two doors, one with a thin, rectangular window, on the same wall with the blinds, and the other with none. The one with a window was the way out. The other was probably a bathroom. He felt like he could stand to shower, as if he'd been in bed for days, though not before finding that nurse he needed.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and noted that his back felt like utter hell. How long had he _been _in this bed?

Standing proved to be an unforeseen obstacle to walking. He nearly crashed face-first onto the linoleum when he attempted it, knocking over the rack that held the IV bags he'd been connected to in the process. He caught himself on the bedside table that luckily enough was bolted to the floor. _Though, that is a bit odd,_ he thought.

Sam gathered himself and shuffled slowly to the door via the perimeter of the room, steadying himself with the wall. He felt astoundingly weak and rubber-legged. But he was determined, perhaps to a fault, and he refused to sit around, waiting for someone to happen by. He'd go find someone himself.

He made it to the door and triumphantly turned the handle. There was a small click, like the sound of a lock being released.

Edging out of the room, he was taken quite suddenly by a wave of disorientation. The hallway looked _nothing _like a hospital. For one, there were no bumper rails. Secondly, the floor was made of a sort of laminated red brick which did not lie level and gave the impression of being somewhat haphazard and cockeyed. And another thing, the hall was deserted. Hospitals were busy places. Nurses, doctors, and other staff could always be seen bustling to and fro. He felt his brows draw together in a an anxious frown which was becoming more and more familiar upon his face.

_But if this isn't a hospital... Where the hell am I?_

He could hear some distant voices and was no longer sure if he should seek them out or avoid them.

* * *

><p>Dean rounded the corner, swinging Sam's room key on his finger as he whistled. He'd been by 3 times already today, but thought another visit couldn't hurt. Just as he'd told the doc, he was certain it would be today that Sam finally snapped out of it. He'd said something to Bobby about his keen observational skills or whatever, but really? He just had a feeling.<p>

"Hm?" He saw someone down the hall, leaning hard against the wall, clothed in one of the facility dresses, and wearing nothing on their feet. Well, they weren't really dresses. More like a cloth hospital gown that had little snap buttons all the way up the back and reached most people's knees. He should know. He'd been wearing one himself shortly after Sammy had come here.

He stopped in front of Sam's room, eyes still on the person making their way slowly down the hall, leaning heavily against the wall. Aside from the fact that nothing was down there except for the locked entrance to the women's residences, something was bothering him about the patient. He frowned, and the urge to check into the stranger tugged at him insistently. He'd been holding the key out to unlock Sam's door, but found himself pocketing it distractedly before continuing down the hall.

As he got within maybe 20 feet, the person suddenly straightened from where they'd been hunching over and Dean's heart started to thud in his chest. There was something about them - their frame and their profile. Something so familiar, even down to the sweep of wavy hair at the back of their neck. "Sam?" he said, not sure what he was expecting. Maybe a stranger's face wearing an odd look? Maybe a hearty 'piss off'? It didn't really matter, as long as they turned around.

The brunet turned to him with lost eyes, bangs falling across his pale forehead in a way that made him look so vulnerable and much younger than he was. "Where am I?" Sam said in a tight, roughened voice.

_Oh, god, Sammy, you're awake._ The relief that washed through Dean in that moment threatened to buckle his legs.

He wanted so badly to run to Sam and embrace him. It had been so long, and he'd been so worried... but he had to remember what Bobby had told him. He shouldn't let Sammy know it was him right away. He had to play the stranger at least until his baby brother wasn't in danger of relapsing. As much as it hurt him to act like he had no ties to Sam, especially when all he'd ever wanted was the chance to see him and talk to him again, it was for the best. He put his own feelings aside.

"You're in a hospital," Dean said casually.

"No," Sam said, gritting his teeth, "I'm not. Don't lie to me." He gestured vaguely to the realm around them with his dark grey eyes. "This look like any sort of normal hospital to you?" His tone was sharp. Wary.

Dean held his hands up to show he was harmless. It stung that Sam was suspicious of _him_, of all people. He gave his brother a crooked smile. "Yeah, it isn't much to look at, is it? But it is a hospital. Technically."

"What do you mean?"

"This is Oak Grove. A hospital for drug rehab, recovering alcoholics, and the occasional mental case." So, he was exaggerating a little. OG was mainly for mental cases. But he was trying to reassure Sam, not make him more twitchy than he already was.

Sam fixed him with an assessing gaze. "And which one are you?"

Dean considered lying, but decided not to for some reason. "A misdiagnosed mental case," he said with a wink. "How about you?"

"Me?" Sam seemed confused. "I don't... know. I... woke up here and-" he broke off and his eyes had a sort of glazed look. His skin was pretty pale, too. More so than seemed normal.

"Hey," Dean said, "maybe you shouldn't be wandering around out here. You don't look so good."

"I'm fine," Sam said faintly, stubbornness echoing in his voice.

"C'mon, I'll help you back to your room," Dean offered, reaching for Sam, and had his hand abruptly swatted off.

"I said, I'm fine," Sam ground out. "I don't need your help." He turned away and actually had the nerve to start edging down the hall again, despite the sweat that had broken out on his brow. He was the poster child for stubborn and obstinate, just as he always had been when he got an idea in his head.

"For chrissakes," Dean muttered impatiently, grabbing Sam and slinging his arm around his neck, amid protests. "Quit acting like a stubborn little _bitch _and let me help you!" he said in irritation. He felt Sam's entire body stiffen and caught a glimpse of wide grey eyes staring at him like he was the Sphinx. "Where's your room?" he said gruffly, looking down the hall and hoping Sam wasn't already busily figuring out who he was.

He needed to be more careful, not fall into old habits or do anything else that might give him away.

"Fourth door down on the right," Sam said quietly. "I think."

"All right then." Dean noticed that the hip and waist beneath his hand were too thin and that he felt kind of strange holding Sammy like this. He shook his head. It had to be the switching back and forth between relief, elation, anger, and relief again in quick succession. Not to mention the lies, and having Sam's gaze resting on him from so close up.

They made it back to the room and Dean eased Sam through the doorway, taking in the state of things inside. The standing rack that held the bags of IV fluids was on the floor and there was a mess of tubes and wires scattered about. "Jesus, what'd you do, ripping all that stuff off you like that?"

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, looking cowed.

"Hey, don't apologize to me, I'm not your keeper." Dean tried to keep his voice sounding off-handed and uninvolved, unlike a moment ago. This acting thing was harder than he'd thought. "I just feel bad for the med staff," he explained with a shrug, helping Sam sit on the bed. "They were trying so hard to keep you in one piece. Seems like a shitty way to say '_thank you_'."

"Seems like you know an awful lot about it," Sam said then, gazing at Dean through the tops of his eyes. His lips were in the beginnings of that pouting look that was so hard to resist.

Dean looked away. "You're kind of well known around here. It isn't every day we get someone in who can't even wake up long enough to take a piss on his own." He tried to create some distance between them with his words. "There was a pool going, betting on how long you'd be out of it."

"Is that so," Sam said so quietly, Dean wasn't sure if he was meant to hear it.

"Well, I should be going," Dean told him, turning his back on his brother, even though he wanted to stay. "Seems like I owe people some money."

"Wait!"

Dean looked over his shoulder, making sure to affix an unimpressed look upon his face. "What?"

Sam looked conflicted, staring at him with those expressive grey eyes of his. "Do I... know you?"

"Nah. I'd remember you."

Sam's face flushed a little and Dean wondered why his own words had come out sounding vaguely solicitous. He hadn't meant them to, but... He shrugged and tossed Sam a questionable smile. He supposed if Sam thought he was being hit on, it was all the less likely that he would assume they were brothers.

"Um," Sam said.

Dean let himself frown discouragingly. "What now?" He was afraid Sam was going to ask him his name. He wanted to avoid that for at least a bit longer. "You need a nurse or something? I can think of one thing you probably weren't too eager to pull off of you."

The flush on his brother's face was instant. "Geez, have some decency, would you?" Sam muttered. He rubbed a hand over his face, seeming to collect himself. "Fine, just-," he looked away. "Just get someone then."

"Sure thing, princess," Dean shrugged again, heading for the door.

* * *

><p>Sam watched him go, aggravated that he hadn't managed to ask the guy his name. He wasn't sure they'd ever met before either, but... there was something that was so familiar about him.<p>

His dark hair was spiky and long on the top, shorter on the sides, and his eyes... they reminded him of someone. Sam ran his thumb over his lip, deep in thought. The guy's face was arresting and those green eyes sometimes had a strange look to them. Sam was certain that he would remember meeting someone like him before, but...

He lay back in the bed, trying to assess his fucked up state of being. He felt weak as a kitten, and had even been reacting oddly to things. Out in the hall, he'd felt a strange mix of desperation and uncertainty that had peaked at the man's arrival. He'd felt oddly threatened and had responded with anger.

The man had ignored him and made short work of his protests, herding him along like he'd done it every day of his life. It almost reminded him of his brother Dean.

Sam closed his eyes. But Dean hadn't ever made him feel antsy like this, not that he could recall. And he certainly hadn't been able to make him blush with a few careless words and a tilted smile.

_I'm just out of sorts. Thinking too much about things. I'll be back to normal in no time._

Besides, what were the chances he'd meet his brother here anyway? He hadn't been able to locate him even when he'd tried.

He wondered if he'd gotten a chance to ask the guy to stay, if he would have. He didn't really want to be alone. Just now, he could hardly even imagine there being other souls in this place. The dark-haired guy with his mercurial moods seemed almost like an apparition. Or perhaps he himself was. What if he'd died and just didn't realize it?

"Sam?" Green eyes met his, making his heart skip a beat as the subject of his thoughts poked his head into the room. "Some doctors and stuff will be by in a minute. Hang tight."

Sam nodded.

"You okay?" The guy asked, giving him a scrutinizing glance.

Sam nodded again, thinking, _No, I'm not._

"You want me to stay or something?" the dark-haired man offered lightly, as if he hadn't just said a moment ago that he had places to be.

Sam was surprised. It was like his thoughts had been clearly spoken aloud, but he hadn't said a word. And here again was the strangely caring manner that phased in and out from the self-proclaimed mental case. Though the guy _had_ said he was misdiagnosed... "Not if you have somewhere to be."

_He'd just said a minute ago that he had to get going. Had that been just an excuse?_

The guy shrugged with a rueful smile. "Ah, well. Guess the guys can wait a bit to collect on our bet, huh, Samm-?"

He looked vaguely uncomfortable suddenly as he sat on Sam's bed. A little twitchy.

_That was odd, wasn't it?_ Sam thought. It had almost seemed like he was going to say 'Sammy'. But only his family had ever called him that, making him sound like a little kid. Could he be 100% sure this wasn't his brother? He hadn't seen him in over 10 years. Hell, he didn't even know if Dean was alive.

"So, what's your name?"

"Muhammad," the green-eyed man said with a flourish. To Sam's skeptical look, he added, "Muhammad the Majestic."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, whatever, man."

"What, you don't think I'm majestic?" His lips were curving up into a half smirk that was kind of fascinating to watch unfold. "And here I was being humble. I've been told that _magnificent _is a more fitting description," his eyes were playful beneath the dark fringe of his lashes, "usually during pillow talk."

Sam started to laugh, but it died in his throat as fingertips brushed his cheek. He was suddenly having trouble remembering to breathe. There was suddenly a lot less space between them than he remembered. Green eyes filled his vision.

A knock came at the door. "Mr. Campbell?"

The intensity of those strange eyes left him as his visitor turned towards the door and said, "Looks like the cavalry has arrived."

"Yes," Sam spoke up as his visitor left the bed, "come in."

A gaggle of men and women in white coats crowded in through the door. Sam felt anxiety wash over him. Why were there so many of them? They were all looking at him expectantly and many held metal clipboards in front of them with pens poised.

Sam looked for spiky dark hair but saw none. His green-eyed spectre had vanished, leaving once again without giving a proper name.

Within moments, he was subject to a barrage of questions from one of the doctors while the rest listened and took notes. A woman, presumably a nurse, began righting the fallen IV stand and coiling tubes and wires. She even tucked him back into his bed as he struggled to answer the questions about how he felt, why he'd been out of bed and why he'd taken it upon himself to remove the IVs and such.

He explained the best he could, and expressed his desire for food, a shower and (embarrassingly enough) the removal of the cath.

The one nurse spoke to him as a doctor shone a light in his eye. "Honey, are you sure you'll be able to take care of 'business' by yourself? You look a little worn out."

"Get it off of me or I'll take my chances taking it off myself," he said with a steely gaze.

Her eyebrows raised in surprise, disappearing beneath fluffy blonde bangs. "All right, sugar," the older woman said. "Have it your way."

"Marilene," one of the men said warningly.

She rolled her eyes. "Right, right." She looked at Sam and said, "Sorry, _Samuel_," in a way that made him certain she'd been reprimanded for the way she addressed patients before. She was pretty nonchalant about it, and he bet that if all of them left the room, he'd be back to 'Sugar' in no time.

"Sam," the man that had shone the light in his eyes said, "I'm Dr. Robert Singer. Please feel free to ask for me if you need anything. Anything at all."

"Sure thing, Bobby," Sam said absently. For some reason he thought his brother would call the man that, and he couldn't help himself. He really missed him. All the doctor needed was a grungy ball cap on his head and some auto-mechanic tools in his hands to really look like a 'Bobby'. He just had the face and the beard for it. But his eyes were sharp, showing a great intellect, and were kind as well. Dean would've had a field day teasing someone like him.

Sam didn't notice the weird look he received. "Please call me Robert, or Dr. Singer," the man replied. He certainly was as even-keel as he looked. "You may find it easier to contact me that way."

"Sure. Sorry." Sam flashed him a half-hearted smile that fell off his face almost instantaneously.

"Marilene will assist you with your requests for now. Please try not to venture outside again. We'll make arrangements for you very soon, just allow us a little time."

He nodded at the doctor, wondering why everyone was so bent out of shape over him leaving the room.

"Alright, ladies and gents," the blonde nurse said, waving everyone out. "Give us a little privacy."

Once they were out, she turned to Sam. "Alright, honey, show me your goods."

He groaned internally, wanting to do nothing but ignore such a request, but saw no alternative if he wanted to be rid of the catheter.

He really shouldn't be this shy. It wasn't like he'd never been seen naked before; he'd had several girlfriends and was no stranger to the bedroom. Besides, someone had to have put this thing in in the first place. But he couldn't help his face flushing with discomfort. He felt like a bug on a plate.

"So, I saw you had some company earlier," she said conversationally as she waited for him to be ready.

His brows drew together. "Do you know him?"

She shrugged and started working on the cath - fiddling with the valve or something. "Sure. He's a regular character. Cute, too."

"What's he in here for?"

"Oh, I can't tell you that," she said regretfully. "Patient confidentiality and all. But I'm sure you can figure out why most people are here if you are observant enough."

"He said he was misdiagnoss-gah!" Sam said as he felt something horribly unpleasant in the locale of his nether regions. He glared accusingly at the nurse.

"All done," she announced, putting the thing aside and taking the cath bag off of his leg. "Good job."

He dropped his head back onto his pillows and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. That queasy feeling was back. He was grateful that she had been nothing but professional, and that she had distracted him with conversation, but it had still been awful.

"You still up for that bath?"

"Innaminute," he muttered, his parts still feeling violated. "And it was a shower I wanted."

"Look, poptart, I know you may _think_ you can handle a shower," she said dubiously, "but I'm the one responsible if you fall and crack your head." He opened his eyes and she was standing with her arms crossed over her chest. "You can have a normal bath or a sponge bath. Your choice."

He frowned at her, wanting to argue.

"The sponge bath leaves a lot less to the imagination," she prompted, guessing correctly that modesty was a consideration. "And it'd be harder to do your hair up right."

"You're making me sound like some kind of girl," he accused.

"Just think how nice it will be to scrub some shampoo into it with some deliciously hot water. It'll feel so much better if you can wash it for real."

_Damn it. She has a point. _His hair felt sort of lank and unappealing to him and it was one of the reasons he'd really been set on getting a shower or something in the first place. "Okay, you win."

"Glad you can see reason. Just give me a minute to start the tub filling."

* * *

><p>Dean left Sam with the doctors, feeling wildly unsettled.<p>

_Was I just flirting with my own brother? _

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He'd only been trying to throw Sam off the scent, able to sense the questions that were brimming under the surface, a breath away from being asked, and had decided that embarrassing him or being lewd would be a good way to take the heat off... keep him from asking his name... But... He hadn't counted on Sam reacting like he did, blushing at him like that. Dean hadn't even realized what he was saying afterwards, or even what he was doing, until the doctors arrived and he'd been nearly close enough to kiss him. It wasn't intentional, it had just sort of happened.

_Jesus. __**Was**__ I going to kiss him?_

Just how far was he planning to take this _'I'm-not-your-brother'_ thing? It was obvious he was taking this acting role too far.

But the problem might lay in his desperation not to lose Sammy to the coma again. So what if he was throwing himself into this role in order to be convincing? So what if he had nearly taken things too far? He was doing it for Sam. And Sam would understand why he had to do this. Even if there was some sort of awkward mishap along the way.

He told himself these things, and it made perfect sense. And yet... he could remember all too clearly what it had felt like to be too close to those deep grey eyes.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Chapter title is from the song Killing Time. I really love this one. If you listen, check out the original one, not the Paul Oakenfold remix. (At least at first). Youtube *hint hint*. (I take no responsibility for any of the videos, and heartily recommend you just listen without looking at them. I'm only plugging the songs.)

**Infected Mushroom - "Killing Time"**

In my dreams  
>(I can kill you)<br>Close to me  
>You open the cage and he sets you free<br>Come to me  
>(we run away forever from this misery)<br>Lost my mind  
>Are you calling me<p>

Killing time that I left behind  
>Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around<br>I'm always falling down  
>Killing time that I left behind<br>Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around  
>It's coming for you now<p>

(So how can it be)  
>The color of the world had turned dark on me<br>(Falling free)  
>Losing my reflection and my clarity<br>(Talk to me)  
>I feel the sickness taking over me<br>(Let me be)  
>Imagining that you are here with me<p>

Killing time that I left behind  
>Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around<br>I'm always falling down  
>Killing time that I left behind<br>Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around  
>It's coming for you now<p> 


	6. Becoming Insane

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 5: Becoming Insane<span>

Dean stayed in his room the next day, not coming out for anything except eventual trips to the bathroom. Usually, he would have been absolutely starving, but today his appetite was elusive. His face was set in a perpetual frown, focus turned inward as he sat on his bed, back to the wall. His arms were draped across his knees, and he bounced his hand idly from time to time.

_What am I going to do about Sam?_

Upon deeper introspection, he was even more disturbed about their interaction. He wanted a cigarette but couldn't be bothered trying to go outside. His hand twitched. Since last night, he kept seeing Sammy in the wrong way, kept remembering things like the feel of his arm looped around his neck as he'd helped him back to his room, or...

_Christ._He didn't even like admitting it to himself. But he wasn't so sure it was 'being immersed in his role' that had made him drift so close to Sam.

"This is crazy," he said aloud, his voice gruff and pissed off.

He didn't want to see Sam until he'd gotten this sorted out. Maybe being in these institutions so long was starting to rub off on him. Maybe he was going insane?

"I should talk to Bobby," he muttered. The longer he had to play Sam's not-brother, the more screwed up this could get. It was better if he could say, 'Hey, it's me, Dean. How ya doing, Sammy?' If he could be Sam's brother again, all of this would go away. Bobby could tell him how long until they were in the clear.

Then he wouldn't have to keep seeing Sam's startled flush in his head. He wouldn't find himself wondering what Sam would have done if he had leaned forward and made to kiss him. Would he have realized what was about to happen? Would he have allowed it?

Unhappiness spiked through him again and he clutched his head in his hands. "Gah! What the hell?"

It was too late today to talk to Bobby. He'd have to wait till morning. Which would take a small eternity with how restless he was. What he wouldn't give for a few beers. He needed something to kill the time. Anything.

He thought guiltily that he should still go see Sam and that, unlike him, Sam had no choice but to be confined to his room. He would have no way to pass the time or the ability to talk to anyone, save maybe a nurse here and there. He shouldn't have to suffer because his big brother was losing his goddamn mind.

"Sorry, Sammy," he murmured. "Maybe tomorrow." He still wasn't sure how to explain why he'd be allowed to visit his brother when no one else was. Sam was no fool. He'd be suspicious and the cat would soon be out of the bag.

* * *

><p>"Hi, Dr. Singer," Sam said politely the next morning, grateful as hell to have someone to talk to. He was bored out of his mind. He'd hoped that the green-eyed guy might reappear, but he had not.<p>

"Good morning, Samuel."

"Ah, just 'Sam' is fine."

"Of course." The psychiatrist sat down in a chair that had been added to the room the other day. "How are you feeling?"

Sam gave him a baleful look. "Do you guys all have to say that? It's so cliche."

The doctor smiled. "I've found quite a number of patients are disappointed when I don't give in to convention."

Sam wasn't sure if he was serious or joking. "I feel okay, I guess. Just incredibly bored."

"Well, I think I might have the solution for that."

"Books?" Sam said hopefully. Books could keep him entertained a long while. "Laptop?" The internet would be even better, though he was doubting that was an option.

"Try 'roommate'," the doctor said.

Sam was puzzled. "Really? But how would that help? I'm still supposed to be stuck in this bed and they could come and go as they pleased."

"True," he agreed.

"And what if we don't get along?"

"I don't think that will be a problem, Sam."

"Why not?"

"You've already met before."

_The green-eyed guy? _he thought with a rush of anxious excitement. He could actually see him again, if that were true, and try to drag some answers out of him. "Muhammad?" he said dubiously, having no other name to go by.

Dr. Singer laughed, eyes full of amusement. "Is that what he told you?"

"Uh...yeah. That isn't his name, is it?" He wasn't really asking. He was pretty sure it wasn't the guy's name - it had only been a joke.

"Nope."

"Doc, why him?" He felt suspicious. Was there something they knew that they weren't telling him?

"Well, we don't want to have you integrate with the other residents just yet. We'd like to keep you here for observation, but we don't want to leave you isolated. A roommate would be ideal. 'Muhammad' is convenient as he'd already met you by accident. None of the other residents even know you're awake."

"Oh." Sam felt oddly disappointed.

"I'll also bring you some books. I apologize for the lack of mental stimulation you've been given since your waking. Thank you for being patient."

"Uh. Sure." Sam thought it was odd he was being thanked. What else was he supposed to do?

"How is your appetite? Have you been able to keep anything down?"

"Applesauce?" he recalled. "A little soup?"

"So, your stomach is still adjusting to solid food then?"

"I guess so. I tried to eat some chicken, but I got some vicious stomach cramps and then I threw it back up again anyway."

Dr. Singer nodded and wrote something down on his metal clipboard. "That sort of thing should subside within the week." He looked up. "How is your head? Any muzziness? Headaches? Bright lights bother you?"

"The lights bother me a little. Makes my eyes feel kind of strained and like I'm about to get a tension headache."

"We can dim them for you."

"Thanks."

The psychiatrist tapped his pen against his leg consideringly. "And have you experienced any... altered states of consciousness?" Sam gave him a puzzled look and he went on to explain. "Any random shortness of breath? Hyperventilation without apparent cause?" Sam shook his head. "Realistic dreams? Fear? Paranoia?" Sam was still shaking his head. "Have you heard or seen anything you thought was out of the ordinary?"

"Only this place," Sam said truthfully. "It felt really weird to wake up here. I mean, I thought it was hospital, and then I wondered if maybe I'd died or something. It was so deserted."

Dr. Singer nodded. "And you were suffering a panic attack in the hall after leaving this room?"

Sam frowned. He hadn't mentioned anything of the sort. "I don't think I was."

"Perhaps you weren't aware of it, but you were showing signs of it when I saw you the other day, just after it happened. Sweating, paleness, eyes constricting and dilating. Think back to when you were alone in the hall. What was on your mind?"

"Well... I was starting to feel like I was in some sort of nightmare. Only everything felt really real. I had no idea where I was and having the catheter on me was already kind of freaking me out." He paused, seeing it all again. The hall with its crooked floor, and the echoing silence, the cavernous ceiling. The disorientation that had swamped him. The sudden fear that anyone he did encounter would be a threat to his well-being. And there had been one wild thought - that he'd been kidnapped and brought to some strange location to be experimented on. He wasn't sure where that had come from exactly but as he'd edged down the hall, he was convinced that he needed to do so in order to free himself.

It was only that familiar voice that had given him pause, calling his name. He'd responded automatically, feeling for some reason that help had arrived.

But the green-eyed man had seemed shifty, and his unfounded trust fell off sharply.

He couldn't believe in those eyes as they tilted strangely, or that full mouth twisted into a reserved, quirked smile - until the guy had the nerve to call him a bitch. In that moment, he was reminded so forcefully of Dean, that years of conditioning had taken over and he meekly went along with his offer of assistance, though he'd been fighting it so hard only moments before. He was just so stunned wondering if the guy helping him to his room actually could be his brother.

"Sam?"

"Huh?"

Sam realized from the doctor's patient expression that he'd totally zoned out. "Oh, sorry."

"It's quite alright." Dr. Singer said with a faint smile. "I must be going, but you'll see that the extra bed is brought in soon, along with some reading material."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

* * *

><p>Dean paced the floor of the psychiatrist's office angrily. "So you're telling me that not only do I need to keep up this charade for at least another week, <em>at the<em> _minimum_, I have to stay in the same room?" He growled in frustration. "Do you have _any _idea what you're doing to me here?"

"No," Dr. Singer said calmly. "Do enlighten me."

Dean shot him a nasty look.

"What does it matter, Dean? You were spending nearly all of your time in there."

"But that was _before _he woke up!" He gesticulated aggressively. "Everything's different now!"

Bobby was giving him that _'professional interest' _face. It was pissing him off. Dean strode over to the desk he was sitting at and slammed his hands upon it. "What don't you understand? I can't keep this up!"

"Dean, it's only been a few days," the older man said reasonably. "Is there something else going on that you'd like to tell me about?"

"No," Dean said shortly.

"Then we will proceed as planned. The bed should be in by now. Please take some of my books down to Sam so he has something with which to enrich his brain."

Dean growled again and strode over to the shelves, grabbing things off of it at random.

"This may or may not be of interest to you," Dr. Singer said, "but it seemed that this would be the best way to explain your presence upon Sam's waking. I'm sorry if you feel inconvenienced. The other consideration was keeping Sam from encountering people who knew you that might call you by name. Worst of all, your last name. Not even a flawless charade would be able to withstand that."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean said in a clipped tone. Of course Bobby had had his reasons, and they were good ones, Dean had to admit, but this put him in such a tight spot! He wasn't in a mood to be pleasant.

Stalking out of the office, a stack of books in his hands, he ran into Gordon.

"Hello, my _friend_," the black man said, conveying levels of meaning that were known only to him.

"Get bent," Dean said, weaving around him.

"I heard a rumor, Winchester," Gordon called at his back as he kept pace. "A real doozy of a rumor. Care to hear it?"

Dean stiffened. "Not really."

"That pretty boy Sammy has woken up, and guess who he is?"

"His name is Sam," Dean corrected, hating Gordon's ignorant, mocking use of the nickname.

"Yes, Sam. Sam Winchester."

Dean stopped walking and turned to look at him. "What, so you're telling me I have a brother now?" He put as much scorn into his voice as he could. "Where the fuck did you hear that? That's fucking asinine."

"Is it?" Gordon persisted, eyes alight. "I suppose my source might have misheard you the day Sammy came in, but I don't think so. You're crazy, Winchester, but even you have a standard set of behaviors you generally stick to. What made you run after Sam 'Campbell' like a bat out of hell, knowing that Dillan and his crew would never let you get that far?"

"Well, shit, Gordon. If I'm crazy, what in the hell does that make you?"

White teeth flashed in a wide smile. "Answer the question."

Dean smiled back. "Sorry, it's against my policy to cooperate with assholes."

"There's a reason they're letting you in there to see him." Gordon's tone was becoming hostile. "It isn't coincidence."

"Anybody ever tell you you're paranoid?"

"You-!"

"Hey, Gordon," another voice called out. One of the orderlies. "Leave Winchester alone. He has a delivery to make for Doc Singer."

"This isn't over, Winchester," Gordon hissed.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Is it ever?"

"Gordon!" the orderly snapped as the man took a menacing step towards him, looking like he wanted to put his fist through Dean's teeth. "Move it along!"

Dean shrugged off the encounter and continued his trek downstairs to his brother's room. He was still in a bad mood, but somehow being able to antagonize Gordon a bit made him feel a little better. Go figure. _And here I thought the guy was all bad, _he thought sarcastically with a twisted smile.

Things were coming to a head, though. He and Gordon were likely to be crossing fists soon. He welcomed it. He just didn't welcome the inevitable consequences afterwards.

* * *

><p>Sam had fallen asleep, lulled into a stupor by his intense boredom. He thought he heard the door open. He didn't pay much attention, it was probably one of the nurses. She didn't turn on the light so he continued to doze.<p>

"Hey, Mari," a voice said as the door opened a second time. It was pitched low, so he could barely hear it. "How is he?"

"Hi, Sugar," a female voice responded in an undertone. Sam thought it must be Marilene. She was the only one who addressed people like that. "Where've you been hiding yourself?"

"Around." There was a small laugh. It sounded fake. Rueful.

"Well, he seems to be on the mend," she told him. "But he could do with someone his age to keep him company."

"Yeah, that's what Bobby said, so here I am."

Sam started in surprise at the name. He'd pegged the voice as belonging to the green-eyed guy without a name, but once more he was becoming suspicious that his name was actually _Dean_.

"Do you mean Dr. Singer?" she asked. "Why do you call him that?"

"Dunno." The voice sounded like it came with a shrug. "Just looks like a Bobby to me."

See? Wasn't he saying what Sam himself had thought earlier? That Dean would have thought Dr. Singer just looked like a 'Bobby'?

He lay there, pretending to be asleep, but his heart was thudding in his chest.

"Hey, Mari," the male voice dropped even further. Now Sam really had to strain to hear it. "He ask you anything about me?"

"He asked how you managed to have such a firm looking ass."

_What?_ Sam was indignant. _I did __**not**__! _He was about to roll over to clarify that, when the conversation resumed with a feminine chuckle.

"Oh, my," she laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen you turn such a charming shade of red, Dean."

_Dean?_ Sam froze. _Dean? As in, his Dean?_

"What is wrong with you, woman?" Dean demanded in a hushed voice. "Making up off-the-wall shit like that..."

"Oh, but it was worth it just to see your face."

"Ah, whatever," came the gruff reply. "Now get on out of here unless you have actual work to do."

"Sure thing, cupcake. See you later."

The door closed behind her and Dean walked into the room with a sigh. Sam still lay frozen, wondering if he should say something or not. And if he did, when? Now?

There was the scuff of feet on the floor and the sound of Dean dropping something weighty onto the second bed. "Goddamn heavy books," he muttered under his breath.

Sam was facing the second bed and opened his eyes to watch him. There was indeed a leaning tower of books that Dean was busily holding steady while he looked for a better place to put them.

Here in the dark like this, he could almost picture being back home again, a kid in his bed, with his big brother checking out some suspicious noise he'd heard in the night. The top of the silhouette was the same, his spike-topped hair making the same jagged accent to his profile. Only the body was different. He was no longer a kid. Neither of them were.

He sat up, emotion tearing at his throat. Was this familiar stranger really his brother? Was it possible?

Sam squinted at the figure before him, feeling in his bones that it was. "Dean?" he called softly, experimentally.

There was a pause where neither of them moved or spoke.

"Good guess," the dark-haired guy said with an upward quirk of his lips, visible in the stray light. "I'm your roommate."

"You're my brother," Sam corrected slowly as it started to sink in. "Dean." He hadn't seen Dean in over 10 years, when he was just a kid. _God, it's been forever. _He looked so different, but Sam was sure it was him. His green eyes were the same as he remembered, so were his expressions, the way he talked...

The guy gave him a baleful look. "No, man," he said shortly. "I'm Dean, but I'm _not_ your brother. I'm just your new roommate."

_Could I be wrong?_ Sam wondered, brows drawing together in confusion. Uncertainty crashed through the awe from just a moment ago, felling him. The disappointment was crushing and he felt his face begin to fall. "Sorry... my mistake."

"No worries," his not-brother Dean said with a smile, clapping him on the shoulder. "Water under the bridge."

"Sure," Sam said, laying back down and turning to face the other way. For a moment, he'd been so sure.

"So, Campbell," Dean said, and there were sounds of him settling on his bed. "What's the deal with this brother of yours? Don't you even know what he looks like?"

Sam dug his arms under his pillow and scrunched it up to his face. His voice was muffled as he said, "He looks like you."

There was a lengthy silence, broken only by the periodic turning of pages. Dean must've had a book out that he was looking at.

"Pretty sad that you can't even recognize him," Dean said disparagingly. "Pre-tty sad."

The tone and the words pissed Sam off. He rolled back over and shot his roommate a glare. "And what the hell would you know about it, huh?"

Dean shrugged and turned a page distractedly. "Maybe nothing. Maybe something."

"Yeah? Well I haven't seen my brother since I was 10."

"Why not?"

"He disappeared."

Another page turned, and Dean made an appreciative look at whatever he saw there, mouth puckering in a silent whistle. The book seemed to be one on nude photography. His eyes coasted up to Sam's briefly. "Ever try to look for him?" There was something quietly intense about that gaze.

Sam frowned. "Sure, I tried. But I guess he was too good at not being found."

"You have any relatives you could have asked?"

Sam readjusted himself on the bed, tucking his feet up and sitting Indian-style. "My dad was even harder to find. And my mom..." He frowned as his head suddenly spiked with pain. "Ow." He brought his hands up to his temples. "My mom, she..." he groaned as the pain spiked once, twice more, and there were flashes of red. Violence. Smiles. Blood. Nausea swept him up in its vicious hold and everything started spinning.

"Sam!" he heard faintly. "Sammy!"

Sam almost laughed to himself. Now he was hearing things.

"Sam, open your eyes! Right now, you hear me?"

There was such desperation in that voice, Sam made an effort to comply, even though he was sure his eyes had never closed. Dean's anxious face swam into focus and he realized he was being shaken.

"What?" he murmured, not making sense of why a Dean that wasn't his brother could look at him like that. He remembered one time when he was 6, his brother had given him a look just like that one. He'd gotten his foot stuck between the roots of a tree in the forest and had sprained his ankle before getting knocked out when his head hit the ground. When Dean had finally found him, he'd done nothing but yell at him and tell him he was stupid for getting hurt by something that couldn't even move. He sounded angry, but his face, the moment Sam had seen it, was panicked and it looked bad, like he was going to be sick. And while he carried on, he'd started to look relieved. Stern, but relieved.

"Thank god," Dean said under his breath. His arms were holding Sam steady. "Can you sit up? Lean back?"

Sam nodded weakly and let Dean guide him back onto the bed, resting his head on the pillows. His hand rested on Dean's forearm, clutching it unconsciously. He could feel the muscles corded and sliding within it.

"Sorry," Dean said. "I didn't know this would happen." He sounded closed off and uncomfortable.

Sam shrugged. "Me neither."

"Uh... mind if I?" Dean asked. His left arm was pinned under Sam's shoulders. His right was still resting beneath Sam's hands, but had fallen to rest upon his stomach. It felt kind of nice. Comforting.

"My head hurts," Sam said. "Can't you just lay here a minute till it stops?"

Dean was silent a moment.

"I guess," he said finally, and gingerly settled next to Sam.

It was kind of a compromising position. To anybody who walked by, they would have appeared like lovers curled up together. Sam lay on his back, while Dean, because of his arms, was facing him, body less than a foot away.

"Thanks," Sam said.

* * *

><p>If Dean thought such a position was awkward, it was nothing compared to the awkward he felt upon waking up.<p>

He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he opened his eyes and Sam's sleeping face was turned towards him, mere inches away. It was smooth in sleep, like a little kid's, and his lashes formed little crescents on his cheeks. His bangs fell across his forehead in unruly waves. Dean reached out to brush them aside, and started as Sam moaned in his sleep, face turning into the touch.

Heart suddenly knocking him in the teeth, Dean's eyes were pulled to Sam's lips, which twitched into a smile in his sleep. They parted slightly, and he couldn't help but notice how full and compelling they looked. He also couldn't help but notice the fear and excitement that were battling for dominance within him, and the way their legs were intertwined. One of Sam's legs was thrown up quite high between his own and was becoming one hell of a distraction.

He needed to get out of this arrangement. Before he did something they'd both regret.

Before his free hand reached up again to brush Sam's hair aside, as it was doing now, and before Sam responded to the touch by tilting his face upwards, closer to his. God help him, he was drifting that two inches lower that brought their lips near to touching. His lower belly clenched tightly as he hung in the balance, not quite stepping over that last boundary, but actively considering doing so. He toyed with the thought of brushing his lips against the ones before him, and his body responded strongly. It reminded him that he had not properly been with anyone for years, aside from quickies with a weak-willed nurse here and there. He'd never been one to show interest in his fellow man.

"Mm," Sam mumbled, stretching a little as he started to wake.

Dean jumped back just in time.

"Dean?" Sam queried in a sleep-thickened voice that shot right through him.

"Think my arm's asleep," he muttered, tugging at it. He was eager to make a hasty retreat.

Grey eyes blinked at him slowly, refocusing on his face. "You really do look like him."

"Who?" he asked absently, trying to reclaim his legs before any more errant motion made him press Sam's body into the mattress beneath his.

"My brother Dean."

"Well, I can't exactly help that, can I?" he said a little more harshly than necessary. He was getting desperate.

Hurt flashed over Sam's face, but was gone in an instant. Hidden. "Yeah. Sorry." He sat up, helping to untangle their limbs.

"Now, if you're done getting your beauty rest," Dean said, "I'm hitting the shower." A cold shower, he added mentally.

"Sure. Okay." Sam was giving him a slightly odd look that he could not decipher.

One thing was for certain, Dean thought as he closed the bathroom door behind him. This arrangement had to change. He was pissed. Not only had he himself set off a dangerous memory in Sam his first _15 minutes _in the room, he'd nearly given into his blooming insanity and done something they both would regret.

He'd just have to tell Bobby it wasn't worth it.

He was going to end up fucking everything up, no matter how hard he was trying not to.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:**Chapter title from Infected Mushroom - "Becoming Insane". Yes, there are lyrics, but you just have to listen to this one. There are all sorts of vocal distortions and such going on that just can't be represented with the words of the song. This, also, is one of my favorites by IM. :)


	7. I Wish

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 6: I Wish<span>

Robert Singer stood in his office, staring down the haughty glare of the young man who was now officially his most pain-in-the-ass patient at OG.

"Why the hell not?" Dean yelled.

"Because I said so, you idiot," he practically yelled back.

"Well I can't do it anymore. Find someone else!"

"There **is **no one else, Dean. You're it."

"You have a whole loony bin full of people and you're telling me that I'm the _only _one who can room with my brother?" He wasn't buying it. Bobby had to be fucking with him. The only thing is, he didn't know why.

"What aren't you telling me, Dean?" Dr. Singer said harshly, his eyes piercing. "I know there is something or you would not be acting like this."

"There's nothing," Dean growled. "So why don't you drop it and show a little cooperation?"

"You're seriously taking this attitude with me?" Bobby was incredulous.

Dean didn't care. He was pissed off. Either he needed to get out of the rooming with Sam arrangement, or the shrink needed to admit that his medication was fucking with his head. He hadn't forgotten how nonchalant the man had been when he'd been drugged fucking senseless shortly after Sam came in. Everything was all 'calm' and 'copacetic', blanketing over situations that could be seriously jacked up, leading him through hell with a carefully modulated voice, trying to fool him into thinking everything was okay, was _normal_.

"You're damn right, I am," Dean spat. "Ignoring what I'm trying to tell you - you're getting to be just like the rest of them. Me rooming with Sammy is a mistake. But you don't wanna listen. You're so goddamn sure you're _right_." His green eyes flashed and he looked a little unhinged. "And if I said that there's something seriously screwed up with the 'medication' you're feeding me, I'd be the last person you'd fucking listen to, right? I'm stuck in here, so I _must_ be crazy. I must have no idea what I'm talking about, _**right?**_ You were just placating me when you gave me any credit or acted like you gave a shit!"

Dr. Singer was amazed at how badly this was getting under his skin. Dean was practically foaming at the mouth, and here he was wanting to meet his ranting head on. He couldn't, of course. Couldn't. It wasn't professional. Oh, but this was setting him right off. Dean had no idea how many strings he'd pulled for him. To drastically alter his medication from the regimen Dr. Kubrick had prescribed, especially after the mauling of that patient was on his record, along with the near-constant fighting he'd been involved in at Stonybrook and even here, it had been a battle. It had been a risk. But he'd seen something in Dean that he wanted to save. There was something self-destructive and fragile in him, and it had been drowning in hate, hostility, and a sea of medications. That infuriating devil-may-care attitude was just a good cover for everything going on in his head. It may have fooled others, but it didn't fool him.

Robert wracked his head for the least volatile thing he could say. Right now he really just wanted to throttle Dean. It was obvious how deeply he cared about his brother, and to be disowning it now, after everything he'd seen... to be acting like Sam was a bother and a burden... that was what was _crazy_. And Dean was stubbornly claiming that nothing was amiss. "What do you mean your medications are screwed up?" he asked gruffly.

For a moment, Dean froze like a deer in headlights. Then his eyes were sliding to the side, avoiding meeting his. "I just don't feel right," he said, anger seeming to have evaporated. He started pacing, and it was edgy, nervous.

"I can't fix it if you don't give me more information, Dean."

"Jesus," Dean muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Is it making your temper worse?"

"No, no," Dean said tightly, waving the suggestion off. "Though I see why you might think that."

"Sexual dysfunction?"

"What?" Dean said hostilely, shooting him an incredulous look. "That's where you're taking things?"

Dr. Singer crossed his arms. "It's a professional guess. You could try answering the question." Getting information out of Dean could be like pulling teeth.

The dark-haired young man sighed explosively. "It's more the opposite. Things are working too well." He ran his hand through his spiky hair. His eyes flicked to Bobby's to gauge his reaction.

"And this heightened arousal has found a target?" the psychiatrist said, suddenly seeing how all of this tied together. It was about Sam, all right, just not in a way he ever would have anticipated. He wasn't going to come right out and say anything. He was pretty sure Dean would explode in denial. "And you are worried about the outcome?"

"Yeah," Dean admitted quietly, his face betraying the conflict he'd apparently been housing the past week. "I thought at first it was like... stress or relief or something. Something with _me_ that would pass. But it _isn't_ passing, and I don't like it." He turned cagey eyes to the psychiatrist. "It's the medication, isn't it?" There was a wary hope in his voice.

Dr. Singer didn't have the heart to tell him that it probably wasn't. "It could be." He sighed. "Dean, I have to ask... was it necessary to go through all of that, yelling and carrying on, just because you had a hard time telling me about this?"

Dean gave him an unfriendly glare. "Sorry if I have more of a problem with this than you do."

"Dean," Dr. Singer sighed again, and removed his spectacles. "I have seen a lot of things. I am not so quick to judge."

"Yeah, well I have no problem judging it," Dean said in a rough voice. "It's messed up. Totally, completely fucking mental. And I need you to fix it before something happens."

"Will you cooperate with my suggestions?"

Dean looked shifty. "Maybe."

"Ok, that's a start. I'll re-evaluate your medication and see where the problem may be." He gave Dean a frank, no-nonsense look. "In all of the uproar of the last few months, have you been engaging in self-gratification?"

"What's that got to do with anything?" Green eyes were uncooperative.

Robert ignored that and continued. "Part of the issue can be solved if you just make sure to do so regularly. Daily, if necessary. A drought in that arena most certainly could have a negative impact on wayward thoughts and impulse control."

"Right. Like a need a shrink to tell me something basic like that," he said sarcastically. "Let me write that down so I don't forget it."

"If you were already doing something basic like that, I wouldn't have to be telling you this," Robert said in irritation. "And you wouldn't be having problems keeping your hands to yourself." He nearly said, _'keeping your hands off of Sam,'_ but thought better of it. He implied it with his eyes, however, and Dean looked away. "The other thing you can do is create some dissonance between you. I know you get along well, but you need to fight a little, like brothers. Be unreasonable. Piss him off. Just don't take it so far that he feels like he's lost his only support in this world."

Dean nodded glumly, looking like things were starting to sink in. "Never thought I'd be having _this _conversation," he muttered, taking a seat and hanging his head. His hands steepled in front of him.

"Now," Dr. Singer said, "the reason I wanted to keep him isolated is because I'm afraid that someone is going to call out to you by your last name." If that happened in front of Sam, the gig would be up. And it had not been long enough yet for him to handle something like that, or the inevitable conversation that would start regarding the accident and the death of their mother. Sam was improving, but as Dean himself had said, even a simple conversation about family had sent him skittering towards oblivion.

More than anything, Dean was terrified of losing Sam to unconsciousness once again. He was scared of doing it himself, unintentionally, just like before. The worry over being desirous of his sibling paled in the face of that.

"I just want him to stabilize a bit more. If even you are afraid of triggering an episode, how ready do you think Sam is to be brought into the fold?" Dean was still hanging his head, and was silent. "He needs his brother. You're the only one that can give him that, even if you are lying to him about it. His subconscious probably recognizes you."

"Doc," Dean said, looking up at last. His mouth quirked up at the corner, the ghost of a smile. "Any chance I can get a bottle of Jack Daniels or something? I could really go for a drink."

* * *

><p>Dean did a lot of thinking after that. What did it mean to be an older brother? For most, didn't it involve a barrage of harassing the younger sibling, incessant teasing, and a god-given gift for being 'right'?<p>

He tried to imagine what would piss him off if he had been the younger sibling instead of Sam, and did his best to live up to it.

Instead of using the common showers, for instance, he now used the one in their room, and did his damnedest to use up every ounce of hot water available. This had gone on for close to a week now, and every time, Sam would shout "Dean!" in this fucking hilarious, tight-lipped, I-can't-_believe_-you! sort of way. He was starting to look forward to it.

Dean lay back on his bed, arms pillowing his head, a huge smile on his face as Sam's pissed off voice issued from the shower. This time, Dean had left just enough hot water to fool him into thinking Dean hadn't done it this time. "What's the matter, Samantha?" he called out in his slightly deep voice. "Taking too long on your hair again?"

The water slammed off and Sam was soon storming out of the bathroom, towel around his waist held in a fist. Wet hair straggled about his face and dripped down his chest. His jaw was set rigidly, his mouth compressed in what only ended up looking like a 5 year old's angry pout. "All right," he snapped. "I know what you're doing? And it's enough! Okay?" He looked like he actually expected the words to have some kind of effect, and that it was an effort to hold his temper.

Dean settled back onto the bed more comfortably, feeling his mouth turn up into the amused smirk that Sam was growing to be infuriated by. "Don't know what you're talking about, Sam," he played dumb, heaving a sigh for good measure. He raised his eyebrows at his brother, looking non-plussed.

Sam's wrathful 5-year-old look intensified. "You," he shook his finger at Dean, looking like he wanted to do a lot more than that. "I'll get you," he promised in a clipped voice, shaking his head indignantly. "And you won't like it."

Dean just shrugged and smiled.

Sam spun on his heel and slammed back into the bathroom. It was good he was getting his strength back.

"Whatever you say, Samantha," he called, loving how infuriated the name made his brother.

"Screw you," Sam growled out.

The really funny thing was, Sam was particular about taking his shower in the morning, after he woke up. That was why Dean had been able to entertain himself with this for so long. He managed to wake up, use the shower and be busily looking harmless by the time Sam went to use it. And Sam refused to give in and alter his schedule. It would be letting Dean win.

This arrangement was just fine with Dean. The longer it went on, the funnier it got.

"I've really been missing out all these years," he said to himself. Who knew it could be so fun to harass one's little brother? He'd been so focused on keeping Sammy safe that he hadn't realized his true duty as an older brother.

* * *

><p>"Aw, man," Dean complained. "Why are you so good at checkers? I've been playing them since before you were born. This is so not right!"<p>

"Yeah?" Sam asked, busily plotting his next move. "And how long is that?"

"Not important," Dean said dismissively.

Grey eyes flicked up to his. "You sensitive about your age or something, Dean?"

"'Course not," Dean waved him off. He knew that taunting, unimpressed tone. Sammy was fishing for info. "I'm just not the sharing type." He played his next move and instantly regretted it.

"Looks like you're getting flustered to me," Sam said with a raise of his eyebrows as he made a ridiculously good move. "Just sayin'."

"Ah, whatever," Dean tossed out. "Be right back. I'm gonna hit the head."

"Uh-huh," the younger man said, primly triumphant. "Running away now, I see."

"Oh, shut up, Sam." He unfolded his legs and slid off the bed. This was their 5th game in a row and he was starting to really hate checkers. It was nearly as bad with rock-paper-scissors. Sammy had always known when he was going to throw scissors.

Sam watched the door close behind Dean with a smile. He picked up the book that he had sitting on the table beside the bed and began to read. _Wait for it..._

_Wait for it..._

"Sam!" Dean bellowed. "What the hell did you do with the toilet paper?"

"I don't know, Dean," he called back, unable to completely suppress the laugh in his voice. "Maybe you used it all up."

"Bullshit," came the angry reply. "There was some in here earlier!"

"I don't know, man, you got me," he said, and settled more comfortably on his bed with a triumphant grin, amid a stream of curses.

* * *

><p>The library was quiet, except for a small group of residents that liked to play cards most afternoons. Nobody bothered them or told them to shut up as it was not a real library (and thus had no librarian to do the shushing), and was more of a glorified title for a sitting room with a hell of a lot of useless books on some bare bones shelving units.<p>

"So," Garth said to Dean as he played a card, "how is the new roommate working out? We hardly see you anymore."

"It isn't," Dean growled, still in a bad mood that Sam had pulled one over on him. "He's a pain in my ass."

"Like, literally?" Pokey piped up, practically quivering in his seat.

Dean gave him a look that could have peeled paint off a barn door. "No, not literally, you dumb shit." He slapped his card down on the table. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Well, Garth has a point," Jared said, laying down a card. "We haven't seen much of you since the vegetable princess opened her eyes. Hell, even before then."

"Aw, you're just pissed that your gym schedule got messed up," Dean said, sitting back and taking a swig of a warm coke he'd won off of Pokey. "I told you I couldn't do shit with those meds they were giving me."

"I think you're just getting lazy."

"Maybe married life is making him soft," Garnet deadpanned, laying down a card.

"Shouldn't it be doing the opposite?" Pokey said as he stared at the cards in his hand. "Seems to me."

"Jesus," Dean said in annoyance. "Do you mind?"

"Jesus..." Pokey said speculatively. "I like that name better. Go ahead and use it. I'll answer." He played a card.

"I'd say he's not getting laid," Garth announced. "From the look of him, he's strung tighter than a gnat's ass stretched over a rain barrel."

"Garth!" Dean looked at him in horror. "What the fuck, man?" Garth shrugged, lips twitching up in a smile. "No way._ I'm _the bitch? Have you even fucking seen the other guy?"

"I heard he's a looker," Jared said as Garnet responded with, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"You're all a bunch of cocksuckers," Dean said, picking up his cards again with a scowl. They weren't going to be letting up anytime soon. They were having too much fun. He'd have to make them pay through the teeth with their imminent loses. "Jesus. He could be my brother or something for all you know."

"You rang?" Pokey said. He held his fingertips to his head as if channeling a higher power. "Hmm... I see it... it's becoming clearer. He is most definitely not your brother. Brothers should not be doing the things I see before my own startled eyes-"

"Pokey," Dean said authoritatively, re-establishing the nickname with the finesse of a bully, a subtle threat lurking in his voice. "This is just a friendly reminder, but I know of at least three ways to make your life a living hell." He shrugged and lifted his eyebrows with a smile as he looked at the smaller man. "Well, off the top of my head, anyway."

"Better watch yourself when Dean goes all butch, little man," Jared said to Pokey. "Scare-y! I was on the wrong end of that when I first got in here."

"That's right, and you better fucking remember it," Dean said with a satisfied nod now that he was back in control again.

"So, Dean," Garnet said flatly, perusing his hand of cards, "when do we meet the wife?"

* * *

><p>Sam was reading a book on law when Dean burst into the room, a dark cloud hanging almost palpably over his head. He raised his eyebrows at his roommate. "Rough day at work?"<p>

"Oh, not you, too," Dean groaned, throwing his jacket down onto his bed.

"What?" Sam asked calmly as he turned a page.

"Nothing," Dean replied, flopping down onto his bed with his legs hanging over the edge.

"You lose or something?"

"Hardly. I cleaned house. Made a hundred bucks." They didn't usually play for cash, but Dean was feeling ruthless today, especially with the ongoing ribbing.

"And where are you planning to spend that?"

"Wherever I damn well please," he said with annoyance. Sam had a point. How would he even spend it when he was stuck in here?

"Which is nowhere, while you're stuck in here," Sam had the gall to point out directly, still reading his book like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Yeah?" Dean challenged flippantly. "Maybe you could make yourself useful - batting those big, soulful eyes at the staff so they'd let you out and you could get me some alcohol or something."

Dean felt Sam's questioning gaze rest upon him. He didn't meet it.

"'Soulful?'"

"Yeah, whatever," Dean backpedaled gruffly. "Bad choice of words. Point is you look like a fucking boyscout."

"I do not," Sam said with irritation.

"You do so - eyes brimming with truth and sincerity and all that."

Sam slapped his book shut. "What's your problem, Dean? You wanna fight?"

Dean raised his head off the bed, propping up a bit on his elbows. "What, think you can take me?" he laughed as he gestured to himself.

Sam's jaw was locking with that obstinate look. "You think I can't?"

Dean looked him up and down as if really considering it. "Nope," he said with a glib smile and a charming tilt of his head.

Next thing he knew, Sam was crashing into him, his body feeling much more solid than it looked. Dean rolled them, using Sam's momentum against him. It worked, tossing Sam onto his back, which gained Dean side control. He started to put Sam into a full mount choke hold, straddling his torso, but the younger man was not to be outdone. He thrust his hips upwards and to the side, bridging the hold and slipping out from under Dean. From there, he twined his leg with Dean's and twisted his body, locking him into a half mount, where he attempted to entrap Dean into a submission hold.

"Pretty good," Dean panted, already busily planning his attack, "Samantha."

Sam's irritation got the best of him and gave Dean an opening, allowing him to shove his brother's face into the mattress as he straddled his back and put him in a shoulder lock.

"Ow, Dean," Sam ground out, his free hand fisting in the sheets near his face. From this angle, it was useless. Dean had his other arm held bent against his back, hand forced upwards towards his neck, applying pressure to the shoulder joint in a move called a hammerlock.

"Submit?"

"No," Sam growled, stubbornly trying to find a counter for the hold. He shifted about, his entire body tight as a bowstring between Dean's thighs.

"Suit yourself," Dean said offhandedly, torquing the pressure on the captive arm. "I could sit here all day."

"Ah!" Sam gasped out in pain. Though, without context, it might have sounded like he was vocalizing pleasure instead. Dean never did know when to leave well enough alone. He tweaked Sam's arm again, just to see if Sam's next noise struck him the same way. It did. "Jesus, Dean, let me up already," he groaned, face falling down onto the mattress. His breath was coming in pants.

Dean leaned down to Sam's ear with a smile. "Submit," he suggested in a low voice.

Was it just him, or did he feel Sam shudder in response?

"All right," Sam said weakly, "Just lay off the arm."

"Your wish is my command," Dean said with a grin, sliding off of Sam's prone body and helping him up.

Sam rolled his shoulder experimentally, working out the stiffness, his face set in that perpetual pout that Dean was starting to really like seeing on his face. "You're kind of a bastard, you know that?"

"Aw, don't be a sore loser. You did well." Dean resumed his relaxed position upon his bed, feeling in a _much_ better mood than before. If Sam had been in tip-top shape, he might have really had his work cut out for him. As it was, he relished his win, and the way Sam had sounded begging him for release. "Where'd you learn grappling from?"

Sam kicked Dean's legs aside, making room for himself on the same bed. "My dad and my brother."

"I thought you hadn't seen them since you were 10? You trying to tell me your muscle memory is that good?"

"No. I kept up with it. Did some wrestling and Judo in middle and highschool. Kept me out of trouble."

Dean rolled over onto his stomach, next to Sam and looked up at him. "What kind of trouble?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Bullies and stuff," he muttered.

"Oh yeah, I can see it," Dean said brightly. "You have hair like this back then? And that sulky look?" he teased, reaching out to tug on a lock of Sam's hair. "Hell, I would have picked on you, too."

Sam gave him an odd look. "They weren't picking on me because they liked me, Dean. They were picking on me because I was weak."

"You sure?" Dean said enigmatically as he held that grey-eyed gaze. "Sometimes it's the same thing." He trailed a finger over a strip of Sam's bare stomach, where his shirt had ridden up. He didn't exactly intend to, his hand just moved to do it without his bidding.

Sam sort of froze and didn't respond for a minute, looking like his mind was going a mile a minute. Still their gazes remained meshed. "Yeah," Sam said in a clipped tone, "I'm sure."

Dean moved closer, watching Sam's eyes react to him, and feeling it run through him. "Then maybe you don't know what you're talking about."

"What are you doing?" Sam said uncertainly as his personal space was violated. His stomach was trembling beneath Dean's hand.

"Proving a point," Dean said against his lips, eyes sliding closed. He could feel Sam's breath coming rapidly, could taste the tension in the air. He could feel the touch of soft bangs upon his face as he toyed with brushing their lips together and more. Dr. Singer had lied. Even with daily self-gratification, his desire to do this had not lessened. He could feel the familiar, sweet tightening in his gut, and it was only increasing.

_Dammit, Sam, push me away!_

He trailed his hand over Sam's hip. There was a small hitch in Sam's voice as he grabbed Dean's wrist and said, "That's enough," in a rough voice.

Dean mentally thanked him from the bottom of his heart. He pulled back with a shrug and an unapologetic smile, trying to pass this off as a joke. He couldn't help but notice his little brother's pupils were blown wide, though his face was set in stern enough lines that he almost missed it.

So, Sam had felt something, too.

But it didn't matter. He couldn't let something happen between them like this. Especially when Sammy didn't know the truth. It wasn't fair to him. "You know what your problem is?" Dean said in sly voice. "You're too uptight."

"And your problem is you don't know when to quit," Sam retorted, his voice deeper than normal. He slid off the bed and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Dean let himself fall back onto the bed, burying his face in the sheets. "God, Sammy, what am I supposed to do?" he groaned into them, wanting to beat his head into something good and solid until he passed out. His body was on fire.

He wanted nothing more than to replay the last 10 minutes, but this time, push Sam down into the bed, violating his unsuspecting mouth. His mind happily supplied the feel of a hard body beneath his and the sound of panted breaths and groans - adapted from their impromptu grappling session. Desire spiked fiercely through him and he couldn't deny it.

He was going to have to tell Sam soon. He needed his help. He wasn't strong enough to stop this on his own. His willpower was seriously failing him and he needed Sam's morals and purity to beat his own into place.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:**Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - "I Wish"**

I wish to give, to take, to make, to check, I wanna see it happen  
>I want to see, to be, the one that plays the game without no fears and regrets<br>I want to know you, better than I know myself  
>I want to feel the end, and to enjoy the consequence<p>

I'm playing the game  
>The one that will take me to my end<br>I'm waiting for the rain...  
>To wash who I am<br>[x2]

I want to move, to loose, to take the grooves, and to give it all back  
>I want to take the time rewind, and to kick it right from the start<br>To be unknown and all alone, lose the kind that are behind  
>To start a new play by myself and to give the best I have<p>

I'm playing the game  
>The one that will take me to my end<br>I'm waiting for the rain  
>To wash up who I am<br>[x4]


	8. Can't Stop

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 7: Can't Stop<span>

When Sam experimentally cracked the bathroom door and looked out, Dean was gone.

A frown marred his face and he let out a sigh, lifting a hand to his brow to smooth away the headache that was thinking of forming. It happened sometimes when he frowned too hard; his brows pinched together and created a pressure in his skull. It'd be easier if he could just get mad sometimes instead of frowning in reaction to things. It would save him some pain.

He leaned on the door frame and tried to think.

Once again, with those green eyes swimming so close to his, he'd frozen. Body, brain, and possibly even morality. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He was just aware of the mouth that hovered before his, and the tickling warmth of breath which marked the passing moments.

He hadn't been sure what was going to happen. Well, he _knew_... or at least he could speculate... but it was kind of unreal. First, they were fighting, tempers flaring (at least, _his_ was), then they were settling back comfortably and talking right after - as if that was a _normal _transition to make.

Then... then there was one of those moments where it almost sounded like Dean was hitting on him (he still wasn't sure what to make of that). After that, time had slowed with the hand that was brushing across his stomach and with Dean's face drifting too close.

As with other things pertaining to the green-eyed man, the signals Sam was getting were all over the place.

The guy had just been checking out what looked to be a pornographic photography book of female nudes. Then he was (possibly?) hitting on his male roommate.

Yet when push came to shove, he didn't quite try to bust a move.

_Not to mention, I've _told _him how he reminds me of my brother..._

Or what if he_ was_ Dean? Like _really _Dean. _His_ Dean?

But how bizarre, such a situation... Why would he do it? Was it a joke gone too far? Was it? It had certainly seemed serious, and yet if he had been certain of that, it would have been easier to pull away. As it was, he didn't even react until the hand on his stomach trailed over his hip, promising it wasn't a joke at all. Just a second more and he was certain the last little gap between their lips would have closed as well. He could feel it to his core. That's what would've happened if he hadn't done something right that second. And his Dean or not, his roommate gave him that time. There was no other reason for that hesitation, right? It was like he was thinking at Sam, telling him, _'push me away'_.

It had felt so serious, so weighty.

And yet, once he'd broken the hold, he'd been mocked. Laughed at. Called uptight.

It was so confusing.

Not to mention, even with all this going on, he still couldn't figure out whether this guy really was his brother or just a look-alike. He wasn't even sure if he should want him to be Dean. Because how could he explain his brother hitting on him? It was kind of disturbing. And kind of...

_(And if it isn't __**your**__ Dean?) _a stray thought queried. _(How would you feel about it then?)_

When they'd been grappling, when he'd been pinned and his roommate had whispered 'submit' into his ear... something had happened. Something had changed, and he was overly aware of the strong body straddling his, of the quality of that deep voice, and of his body being pressed against the mattress.

"No," he said, rubbing a quick hand over his face. A laugh fell out as he shook his head and said, "Oh, no, no."

He turned back into the bathroom and closely consulted his reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked different. The irises were thinning as his pupils swelled. He saw it in his own face, his expression, when his mind kept on its current track, replaying that scene on the bed... and the later scene on the bed.

He gripped the mirror in both hands. "No, Sam," he said to his reflection, his voice intense. Warning. "Just. No."

He couldn't be attracted to his roommate, could he?

"What the hell?" he yelled, spinning from the mirror in disgust. "I don't like guys."

He muttered to himself, biting the tip of his thumbnail. "I _don't_ swing that way. I don't. So why-?"

Another horrifying thought struck him, one which he was definitely less equipped to deal with than the one he was currently mulling over. Was it _because _this Dean guy reminded him of his brother?

His world lurched sickly on its axis and he had to sit down. The top of the toilet was convenient and he fumbled to it, sitting and then putting his head between his knees to take a few deep breaths.

"Ok, Sammy," he murmured. "Calm the hell down. We'll figure this out."

He lifted his head again after a few minutes and rubbed his face with his hands. "It's a brother complex," he said experimentally. "I looked up to Dean since I was kid, then I was always looking _for_him."

When he was 15, he'd overheard his mom on the phone once, talking to a friend about his father. It was after the fact, but that was how he learned his father had been living in a loony bin for the last few years. Something about delusions and monsters. He remembered the panic he'd felt then, his fear for his brother. Was he ok? What had happened when he and his mom left and Dad went crazy? Dean had wanted to look after their dad after the divorce, but who had been looking after _him_?

He'd become obsessed with trying to find Dean, but his mom refused to answer his questions. She'd said only that John had always been a bit odd, but his delusions had finally beaten him and that was why she'd left him. Sam had yelled at her once, asking her how she could take him and leave Dean there if she was so worried about Dad's delusions bringing them to harm.

_'He's got the same sickness, Sammy,' _she'd said. _'You have to let it go.'_

Sam didn't remember Dad seeming like a nut job. Sure, maybe he was teaching his sons some kind of off-the-wall stuff, but that didn't mean necessarily that he was crazy. What if the things he was hunting were real? In that case he was teaching his family how to protect itself. On the other hand... and this was the rub... what if the things he was hunting _didn't _exist? What if Mom was right and it was all in his head? What, then, were the things he was 'hunting'?

He took a deep breath, knowing he would not come to an answer on this in the next 5 minutes when he'd failed to discover one for years.

His mom had known where Dean was, at least some of the time. He wasn't sure if she kept tabs on her older son because she cared, or because she wanted to make sure Sam couldn't find him.

They'd hashed out this conversation many times, many ways, but generally it went like this: _'He's been in detention centers, Sam. He has a criminal record. He'd only be a bad influence on you even if you did find him. I thought you wanted to go to college? You know the only way is if you study hard and get a scholarship; I just don't have the money, baby, I'm sorry.'_

Sure, he wanted to go to college. But that wasn't the only thing he wanted.

He was sure she meant well, but... she didn't seem to understand the gaping hole that Dean's absence had made in his life. And to just write him off as a delinquent and a troublemaker so simply and easily... It bugged him. He'd rather find Dean and ask him personally what the deal was, what he'd done. Maybe he could slap some sense into his older brother and watch out for him the way Dean had always done for him when he was little. What Sam did _not _want to do, most of all, was give up on him. Not without a fight. Even if Dean turned out to be a bit touched in the head like their mom thought, as long as he was still _Dean_, Sam wanted to be there for him.

Which brought him back to his current dilemma - possibly harboring an attraction for someone that reminded him of Dean.

"My wires are just getting crossed," he muttered unconvincingly.

Again, what were the chances that he'd actually found his brother accidentally, and after all this time? He shook his head. "Couldn't be." _Even if Dean had followed in Dad's footsteps and been institutionalized, what were the odds he would be at the very facility __**I **__got brought into? _It would be one helluva coincidence.

So his being drawn to this green-eyed guy... it was probably just his intense desire to see his brother again. He'd wanted so badly to have his search be at an end, that he was seeing things that weren't there and fixating. And in his head, he was probably suffering some torqued subconscious urge to tie himself, in some way, to this person that reminded him of Dean. To reclaim that lost bond, even if it was just a proxy.

"Yeah, that has to be it."

See? It was okay. He wasn't harboring inappropriate feelings for his brother. He could breathe again, instead of feeling like he was on some macabre merry-go-round that was spinning faster and faster and would never stop.

* * *

><p>The psychiatrist's office felt like a safe harbor for Dean at the moment. It was a place where he could come clean about what was going on in his head, and a place that did not have Sam in it. He'd stayed out of dodge since the incident and did not want to come face-to-face with him so soon. He didn't know what he should do, or what he was supposed to say.<p>

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean stopped looking out the window and tried to focus on what Bobby was asking him.

"I said, do you feel that Sam is still as volatile as before?"

Their grappling match came to mind, and so did the feel of Sam's body straining against his as they fought for the upper hand. He could recall every sinuous twist and every expelled breath, as well as every second he'd had Sam beneath him, held helpless in that shoulder lock.

"Uh," he said in a rough voice, then coughed into his hand before continuing. "Yeah. He seems to be getting his energy back. I don't know about the memories thing, though. That's what you're getting at, right?"

The doctor nodded. "I'm keeping what you said in mind and I plan to transition him into normal life here as soon as I think he is stable enough for it."

Dean had a sudden disconcerting thought. Once Sammy 'recovered' fully, would they be taking him away? This was a mental hospital, after all. If they deemed him normal, how much longer would he even be here?

_How much longer do I even have with you? _he wondered.

But if Sam was deemed normal, maybe he could put in a good word for his brother and tell them that he wasn't crazy. Maybe they could both leave here together.

_Though, where would I fit into that perfectly arranged life of his? _Between University and girlfriends...

...and later on it would be work and maybe even a wife? Just where exactly would there be room for him in his little brother's life? It was depressing, really. Sam was the most important thing he had in this world, but he didn't think he would ever be Sam's. Sam was normal, had led a more or less NORMAL life, thanks to their mom, and he would have no use for a brother who was seen as anything _but_ normal and who would want to hang around for more than just holidays.

But what could he do? What in the hell could he do about it?

"Dean, sit down," Dr. Singer's voice said sharply.

He complied automatically, too distracted to even bother being difficult. He realized his breathing was shallow, coming fast, and his hands were shaking.

Before he knew it, a light was shining in his right eye, then his left. "What are you thinking about?" Bobby was asking him. He shook his head, strangely not able to see past the tip of his nose. All he could think about was that his 'best case scenario' life with Sam almost made him feel like just shooting himself. "It's like you're having a panic attack." The words drifted over him, disembodied. "This isn't like you."

All this time, he'd been harboring some fantasy that Sam was out there somewhere, past the stone walls of the facilities he'd been kept in the past several years, and that he was happy. And maybe that he'd forgotten all about his older brother... meanwhile Dean wasted away, treasuring the memories of Sammy, content that he was not screwing things up for him by being around. That had all come crashing down when Sam had entered _his _world, as one of the mentally distressed. That bubble of safety had shattered, and suddenly it was much more than just Sam's happiness he was worried for.

But since Sam had woken, complications just seemed to keep piling up.

-You can't be brothers.-

-You can't let him remember the accident.-

-Try self-gratification to help you keep your hands to yourself.-

_'You look like him. My brother Dean.'_

Each memory and the words that had been spoken to him were hitting him like slugs, punching holes through him while he tried to keep his balance. Emotions were flashing through him like strobe lights, rendering him transparent with their blinding force.

_'I looked for him. Maybe he was just too good at not being found.'_

The hope he'd felt when Sam mentioned his 'brother' Dean, even that... it was twisted and dark. Hope was colored with desperation - that he hadn't been forgotten, that he was missed, _needed_. He'd held to it, poked at it, even as he worked his way into Sam's affections - as an outsider, a stranger - deceiving him and wondering if keeping Sam in the dark would allow him to act on the corrupted feelings he'd been finding himself drowning in.

-Is he recovering? How has Sam's mental state been lately?-

Guilt seared him.

_'You don't know when to quit!'_

Desperation paralyzed him, seeing those accusing grey eyes again, hard as flint. They merged in his head with the ones he'd seen with pupils blown, pulling him in. What was it he was trying to do, forcing this on Sam? It was too big a risk. His mind was still fragile. What if this broke him? But he couldn't control the impulses, not completely.

_((You have to stop me.)) _he thought brokenly. _((I need you.))_

He didn't want this. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Sam. And how would Sam react if Dean let this go on and acted on the veiled desire he'd witnessed in those wide, wary eyes, only to find out later what their true connection was? How would he feel, knowing that it had been his brother? And that his brother had known it all along.

"Dean," Dr. Singer barked out, no longer receiving any real response from the dark-haired young man. His head was lolling slightly and a stricken look was upon his face. His eyes were wide and glassy. "Dean!"

_'You're my brother,' _Sam's voice had been heart-breakingly hopeful,_ 'Dean.'_

_'I'm Dean, but I'm _not_ your brother,' _he'd said, callously crushing that hope with lies. _'I'm just your new roommate.' _The way Sam's face fell was a testament to his believable acting - a good thing - but it tore at him and he wanted to take it back.

_((God help me, I need you.))_

* * *

><p>Sam was on guard as he moved through the facility. It was strange to be walking through these halls, seeing glimpses of others as he followed the orderly that had come to get him. They appeared, disappeared and reappeared like phantoms, behind grand doorways, through halls, or around giant brick columns that rose from the first floor to the second in the area he was in now. There was an open area in the middle, splitting the 2nd floor walkways; a sort of two story atrium that might have once been intended as a sun area. There were windows in the upper reaches near the ceiling that would have been to let light in. Just now, the lighting looked muddy like it was shining through dust and cobwebs, the area looked sinister, and the patients were pale ghosts in hospital grey, flickering in and out of existence.<p>

The room he and Dean had been using was part of a main section that seemed predominantly used only on the first floor and was older and less re-worked than the rest of the place. It also had higher ceilings, more architectural uniqueness, and a main atrium on the one end of his hall with a ceiling that was two stories high, flanked by a sweeping staircase. They went up one side of the stairs and passed through a door in the massive, ornate, and intimidating wall that backed the top of them. From there, it was a short walk through closed, darkened halls before the path split around the narrow inner atrium they were passing now.

As the atrium fell behind them, the hall swallowed them up again in its dusky confines and low ceilings. There were more doors here, one of which the orderly was stopping in front of.

Sam stopped outside Dr. Singer's door and looked around, even though he'd been doing nothing but looking this entire time. He was a little on edge. He'd essentially been ordered not to leave his quarters previously. Why was Dr. Singer wanting him to come to his office all of a sudden instead of visiting him in the room like he normally did?

"Go on in," the orderly said.

Sam tugged at the plain, lifeless t-shirt he wore. It was, he thought, one of the articles Dean had won at cards. It was new, dark grey, and carried no significance, only it was all he could find to wear apart from the white hospital gown he was not going to be caught walking around in. The sweat pants were his own, left by the staff in case he got cold in his bed. Unlike everything else in that room that was hospital-issue, they were not white, but dark blue.

There had been what looked like a set of men's pajamas, lightweight, cool, long-sleeved and dishwater grey, which he'd been wearing most days, but staff had collected it for laundering. He really, really wanted some normal clothes to wear. Where had Dean come by the t-shirts and faded, torn jeans that he wore as a near standard uniform? He couldn't have won them all by cards, could he? How was it that the jeans fit him so well, if that was the case?

The other people he'd noticed mainly wore either the white of staff, or hospital issue grey. Some had plainclothes, but it didn't seem wildly common. Maybe a t-shirt here and there with the drab grey pants. Some had tunic style hospital issue tops, or ones with short sleeves.

Sam lifted his hand to knock, rousing himself from his musings, but he was interrupted by the orderly saying, "He's expecting you. Just go in."

"Sure," he said with brevity, turning the knob.

"Dr. Singer?" he called as he stepped inside. "It's Sam."

"Come in," came the curt response.

The psychiatrist was standing by the window, the light bright upon him compared to the dimness of the rest of the room. Sam almost didn't notice the small couch on the far right of the room, across from the desk, or that it was occupied.

Sam felt a rush of anxiety for some reason as he recognized his roommate's familiar form, reclining upon it like a discarded doll, eyes staring sightlessly. "Dean?" He moved across the room quickly, crouching down beside him before he even registered a thought to do so. "Dean, can you hear me?" he knew instinctively that something was wrong, but he didn't know what. All he could think is that it freaked him out, seeing the spiky-haired man looking so lifeless and devoid of the very things that made him _him_. "Dean!" He took strong shoulders in his hands and shook them, staring intently at the face before him, willing it to register a response.

Dean's eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly. Green eyes slid slowly over to meet his. "Heya, Samm-" his flat voice dropped out and he looked down.

"What's the matter, Dean?" he persisted. "Hey, look at me, man." It was disturbing, this change in behavior. Where was that smart-aleck mouth of his? Where were the endless string of half smiles and smirks that flitted over his face, easy as breathing?

Since when was his roommate capable of staring him in the eye with such gravity? He felt his brows drawing together, worry marking them as he stared back. "You okay?" he asked.

Dean moved then, brushing his hands away, and sitting up. "When'd you crawl out of the woodwork?" he said, not looking at Sam and running a hand through his hair. A smile tried to twitch to life at the corner of his mouth but died before actualizing.

Sam frowned, feeling suddenly out of place for kneeling on the floor and being worried about someone he barely knew anything about. He rose to his feet, suddenly awkward. Unimpressed green eyes slanted back to him and dark brows twitched upward, blandly questioning his presence.

Tension fizzled through him as he remembered Dean cornering him so closely, trying to get a rise out of him. Sam felt _stupid _for feeling anything for him. He let that show in his face, and he swore Dean's eyes changed in response.

"You'll have to excuse him, Sam," Dr. Singer said levelly, coming over to stand beside him. He shot Dean an odd look that was marked with disapproval. "He was having a panic attack. He's out of sorts."

Shock flashed through him. _I brought him out of a panic attack?_

"Is... That isn't why you called me here, is it?" Sam glanced between the doctor and Dean. A panic attack would explain that strange stillness and oddness Dean was exhibiting, but it wouldn't explain why _he_ had been called in... The doctor wouldn't have been calling _him_ in _personally _to snap Dean out of it, could he?

"Don't be stupid," Dean said, rising to his feet.

"You sit back down, boy," Dr. Singer said before Sam even had a moment to get irritated at the insult.

Dean sat. Or lost his balance. It was hard to tell.

"What's going on between you two?" the psychiatrist asked.

Sam froze and felt his face heat for some reason, which embarrassed him.

"Nothing, Bobby," Dean said stiffly. "Everything's peachy."

"Right, and I'm the Queen of Sheba," Bobby said, his eyes looking like they wanted to roll with sarcasm. "Is it the rooming situation?" He took off his spectacles. "I thought you boys were getting along."

Sam glanced quickly at Dean from the corner of his eye. If looks could kill, Bobby might well have taken a few shots to the head from the intensity in Dean's eyes. He looked pissed. "So, what, you thought a little group therapy couldn't hurt, might help?"

Sam felt the rising tension. Maybe he should just bail. "Look, if you guys have an axe to grind," he started to say, pointing his way to the door.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean said, eyes locked on Singer, his voice sounding very much like an adult telling a child to sit still and not move until told otherwise. His brother used to do that to him. Sam sat in a nearby chair and tried not to fidget. He didn't like the tone of this.

"Are we doing this now, Bobby?" Dean's voice was gruff. "Is that what you've decided?"

"No, it isn't."

Sam looked back and forth between them. They were staring at each other hard, a battle of wills. Dean's eyes were flicking, searching Dr. Singer's face before his glare started to settle back down into something more civilized.

"My purpose in calling you both here is that I need to assess whether sharing a room is seriously detrimental to either of you in any way. This is a routine assessment."

"Detrimental how?" Sam asked. He was still upset with Dean, but the doctor seemed to be hinting that their room assignments could change. The thought made him feel discomfited. He glanced at Dean again and was surprised to see something that looked like panic flash in his eyes, visible when their gazes crossed accidentally.

"Well," Dr. Singer said, pulling a chair over and sitting down with them like they were having some kind of marriage counseling. "Anything that is making anyone feel unstable, or like their symptoms are worsening. Any extreme discord."

Dean was surprisingly quiet, so Sam picked up the slack. "No, I don't think so."

Bobby looked at him. "Any headaches? Head pressure? Flashes of past events?"

"Well, not exactly," Sam said. There had been a few times where certain topics surfaced, and it had thrown him into a tailspin, but it seemed to be lessening. He'd been preoccupied with Dean, mostly, and it had been a good distraction. He shrugged and decided to go ahead and voice the thought. It could be that Dean was acting weird because of what happened earlier. He guessed he could cut him some slack. It was an easy enough way to say that he wasn't still mad at him over it or anything. "I think having Dean around has been good for me."

For some reason, he felt like he was saying something a lot more meaningful than what it was intended to be. He felt Dean's intense eyes on him. He wanted to look, but couldn't. "I'm ok with the living arrangement as long as he is," Sam added, sounding lame to his own ears.

"And you, Dean? Do you assent in continuing the arrangement?"

"Yeah, sure," he said quietly.

Sam snuck a glance at him then, and noted that he looked relieved. He turned to Bobby. "Hey, uh... since this is my first time venturing out of that room, could I possibly get some real food? Maybe look around the place?"

"That... could be arranged," Bobby said, looking like he wanted to say 'no'.

"Have you eaten yet?" Sam asked Dean. He tried to be casual as he threw Dean a bone, offering to make up. He sort of missed the easy bantering that they usually had going on at any given time.

Dean's eyes flicked to Bobby and then back to Sam. "I'll take a rain-check. Promised Jared I'd spot him at the gym and all."

"Oh." Sam tried not to sound disappointed. "Okay. Sure." It wasn't surprising that the green-eyed man might have buddies here. _I'll make acquaintances, too, I just haven't met anyone yet. _Still, there was a sting of jealousy pricking him, though he wasn't sure if it was of Dean, having freedom and all, or _over_ Dean. Within the confines of their room, it was like they were the only two souls in the world and now, all of a sudden, there were people like this Jared guy that knew him.

Dr. Singer tapped his pen against his hand and made a mental note to make sure they went to the cafeteria at a time where it would be largely empty. He was concerned that other residents might disrupt the fabrications they'd lain on Sam. And especially if Dean and Sam were together. All it would take is one_ 'Hey, Winchester!'_and it would be all over. It was inevitable, but if they were careful, they could keep things under wraps a bit longer.

A tour of the facility would be difficult as well, but maybe he could arrange for an excursion outside. That carried less risk, and a little sun would be a good thing. Afterwards, he could see how soon it might work to move Sam and Dean's room assignment into the regular residential area, though that would probably have to wait until Sam found out the truth about Dean.

* * *

><p>Dean escaped the office and headed down the hall, feeling lucky to have survived. He'd been talking to Bobby and his thoughts about Sam had run away with him, going haywire. Next thing he knew, he had a concerned Sam staring him in the face and it was almost more than he could take.<p>

Bobby said he'd been having a panic attack - he must've called Sam in to snap him out of it. And it _had_, but...

He'd been ready to tear Bobby's throat out when he thought that the man was going to reveal their secret. He wanted to tell Sam and all, but the timing was horrible. He didn't want it coming out while they were still at odds over that near kiss. Or having it come to light over a stupid panic attack that he had been having, that revolved around Sam's monumental importance in his life.

He wanted to make sure they were on firm ground first.

The truth could come after that, in all its scathing glory.

The only good thing that had come out of all of this is that Sam didn't seem to be as pissed at him as he thought. Well, not only that. Hearing Sam say, _'I think having Dean around has been good for me,'_had had a profound affect on him. It was like hearing his brother invalidate a large and ugly fear he'd been holding onto for some time now. And that Sam would say that, even after all the questionable behavior Dean had been subjecting him to...

It was a relief. A relief so huge he was almost afraid to believe in it.

He _hadn't _been fucking everything up beyond belief.

They were still ok.

* * *

><p>Their room was empty when Dean returned there from his workout.<p>

_Huh. Must've gotten something of a tour after all... _he thought as he began to strip off his sweaty knew Bobby was concerned that someone would say 'Winchester' anywhere in Sam's vicinity. Truth be told, so was he. But they couldn't keep Sam in the dark forever. And it wasn't fair to expect his patience to be indefinite. He'd stayed cooped up in this room for long enough. Dean certainly wouldn't have lasted as long.

He dropped his shirt and pants on the floor, kicking them into an out of the way spot, to be dealt with later. _But for now, a well-earned shower. _Sliding off his boxers, he tossed them on top as he opened the bathroom door. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

The first thing he registered was the steam.

The second thing he registered was that while the shower was no longer running, there was most certainly someone inside. He froze. "Hello?" Sam's slightly deep voice said with a tense undertone.

_Shit!_

The fact that he was completely naked was about to be a serious fucking problem.

What in the hell was Sam doing showering in the evening, anyway?

He looked around frantically for something to cover up with, not keen on being seen in the buff. Not like this, when he'd made a stupid tactical error. Sam's hand was reaching up to pull the curtain aside. _No, the towel would be weird, especially if Sam had noticed it hanging there when he came in. _He'd figure it out - that Dean had come into the room in full glory. It had to be the boxers, and a prompt exodus from the room. Otherwise he was going to have a helluva lot more explaining to do and this was not going to look nearly as innocent as it was. He didn't need to add to his already stellar track record of nearly jumping Sam by making Sam think he was going to accost him in the shower or something. He carefully turned the doorknob, trying not to make a sound as he MacGyver'd his way out.

"Dean? That you?"

"No," he said automatically, wincing as he was caught mid escape. "I mean, yeah. Uh, sorry, man, I didn't mean to walk in on you. I just thought you were still out and all and I was gonna grab a post-workout shower..." _Oh my god, I'm babbling. _He was literally halfway out the door, feeling a breeze on lower parts of his anatomy, his feet inconceivably frozen in place, and he was fucking _babbling_.

"Oh, well, shower's free," Sam said, then the curtain was sliding back.

Dean almost had a coronary right there.

Instinct must have prevailed, because in less than a second flat, he ducked back through the doorway and practically dove back into his boxers, heart slamming in his chest. _Was he seriously getting out of the shower naked, knowing I was in there?_ he wondered, curbing the urge to check. _What the hell? Who does that?_

"Dean?" Sam said, poking his head out from the bathroom as Dean scrambled to assume a natural looking pose leaning with his arm against the wall and his other hand on his hip.

"Yeah?" he said with a shake of his head and a rueful smile, trying to act like nothing was up. He lifted his eyebrows expectantly. He probably looked like an utter tool. How is one supposed to look natural wearing nothing but boxers and a smile?

Sam gave him an assessing look. "You okay?"

"Hm?" Dean noted that Sam had a towel wrapped around his waist. Maybe he'd had it with him inside the shower. Dean was momentarily distracted by some of the water droplets sliding down his torso. _Damn he has some ab muscles for not working out in 2 months. _"Uh, yeah, fine," he said, shaking his head with a small laugh, swinging his eyes up to Sam's. "I'm fine." He shrugged off the weird peering look Sam was giving him with a nervous twitch that manifested as a wink.

"You're sure?" Sam asked slowly, nodding at him slightly as he kept those assessing eyes fixed upon him.

Dean realized suddenly that his pose might be mistaken for something solicitous, that his arm resting against the wall over his head, and his 'casual' leaning was mimicking a classic guy move of trying to show one's body off to entice their sexual target. The smile was not helping him out here. He coughed, quickly retracted his arm and rolled his shoulder like he was working out a kink in it. "Yeah. Yup. Just want to, ah," he nodded to the door, "take that shower."

"Sure. Right," Sam said, moving out of the way; meanwhile, Dean headed through the door too fast. "Um." Between the two of them, one doorway was not nearly big enough, and there was an awkward up-close-and-personal shuffling. Sam moved to one side to slide around him, and Dean mistakenly also moved to that side as well. He tried to correct it, instantly going the other way, but so did Sam, eyes meeting his in surprise. Rinse, repeat.

"Ah," Sam laughed awkwardly, scrunching his nose a little as he shook his head with a laugh and shrugged.

It was cute, Dean thought, and he wanted to press his lips to the embarrassed smile that fluttered upon Sam's mouth.

If he was honest with himself, he also wanted to pin Sam up against the door frame.

He wouldn't have minded feeling for himself how in shape Sam had kept his body over the years. His hands were itching to touch. And yeah, he even wanted to drag that towel out of Sam's grip.

"So, um, how about that shower?" Sam said, looking a little flustered. He licked his lips, a nervous gesture.

"Hardly seems fair for you to grab another one," Dean said with a raised brow, as if Sam had meant they shower together. His voice dropped suggestively. "I know sharing's a virtue and all, but then I won't have_ any_hot water left." When Sam looked flustered like this, he couldn't resist the urge to tease him. The effect was immediate.

"Wh- No, I didn't..." Sam stammered, coloring slightly. Dean could feel his mouth quirking up at the edges as he floundered. "That is _not_what I meant!" he concluded indignantly.

"Of _course _not," Dean said with a smile and a nod, clapping his hand on Sam's bare shoulder in a patronizing fashion before moving past him into the bathroom.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:**Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - "Can't Stop"**

_And i cant stop thinking about moments that i lost for you.__  
><em>_and i cant stop thinking about things i used to do.__  
><em>_and i cant stop making bad decisions__  
><em>_and i cant stop eating stuff you make chew__  
><em>_i put on a smile that you wann'a see__  
><em>_another day goes by that i loan to be like you.__  
><em>_[x2]_

_and i cant stop making bad decisions__  
><em>_and i cant stop eating stuff you make chew__  
><em>_i put on a smile that you wann'a see__  
><em>_another day goes by that i loan to be like you._

_and i cant stop , cant stop... making__  
><em>_cant stop, cant stop__  
><em>_cant stop, cant stop shaking__  
><em>_cant stop, cant stop,__  
><em>_cant stop__  
><em>_[x100]_

_And i cant stop thinking about moments that i lost for you.__  
><em>_and i cant stop thinking about things i used to do.__  
><em>_and i cant stop making bad decisions__  
><em>_and i cant stop eating stuff you make chew__  
><em>_i put on a smile that you wann'a see__  
><em>_another day goes by that i loan to be like you.__  
><em>_i want to be like you.__  
><em>_[x2]_

_and i cant stop , cant stop... making__  
><em>_cant stop, cant stop__  
><em>_cant stop, cant stop shaking__  
><em>_cant stop cant stop,_

_and i cant stoppppp_


	9. Smashing the Opponent

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 8: Smashing the Opponent<span>

Sam fidgeted as Dean took his shower. He was all out of sorts, and he couldn't seem to get the look of those olive green eyes out of his head. He could recall, in detail, every little fleck or color variation, and the stunning clarity and warmth of them as he was teased.

And then... there was how his own eyes drifted down, drawn like a magnet to the smiling quirk of full lips, and he'd caught himself wondering what they'd feel like if he touched them. With fingertips, or with his own lips.

And that scenario played out in his head - he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Dean's, feeling those soft, sarcastic lips give beneath his... and feeling them part...

Sam broke out in a sweat and struck the errant thoughts from his head with a will. _No, not this again._

He could nearly feel the heat of that mouth... and feel the sinuous curl of a tongue sliding against his as Dean pressed him into the door frame.

"No!" he whispered harshly. His mind was rebelling against him. His breath was shallow, fast. His heart was racing. "This isn't right." The object of his thoughts was in the next room... nothing upon his body but water.

Desire shivered through him.

Sam flopped back onto his bed, hands over his eyes like he could blot out the reality of losing his mind.

Because he had to be. He had to be around the freaking bend to be having thoughts like these.

"Okay, take it easy," he muttered. "Think." He just needed a distraction. It wasn't like he thought these things all the time. Usually it seemed to coincide with being within 2 feet of Dean or looking directly into his eyes. If he could just avoid that sort of thing for a bit, maybe this would go away.

...and he needed to never contemplate Dean in less than full attire.

Sam willfully thought of anything but Dean in the shower, making an exercise of it, one which trained his mind and body away from such dangerous ground. He traced the walls with his mind, every corner of this white room, every crack or bump, until he had something of a 3-D model in his head. He then took a look outside his 'model', outside the window, and grounded it in a location. He could see grass, trees... actually, it was a shit-ton of trees, all around the building, a whole grove of them. He wondered if that was how the place got its name, Oak Grove. Then there was the 2 lane road that looped past, its asphalt so old it was bleached nearly white in the sun. On the one end, it disappeared around a bend, on into some mountainous terrain. On the other end, it just went on and on into the rolling landscape. There was no real traffic on it, though he could see one car. It was black and looked familiar as it approached. _Strange_, he thought, _it kind of looks like Dad's old Impala._

"Sam," Dean's irritated voice shot through his reverie. "Did you take one of my shirts?"

Sam sat up, thoroughly disoriented. "Huh? What shirt?"

"The dark grey one. You were wearing it earlier. It was mine, wasn't it?"

"Uh... yeah. Guess it was."

"And the one you got on now?"

"...yeah. It's yours."

Sam thought he heard a muttered curse. Dean was leaning over a drawer, tapping his finger on the top of the dresser. He was wearing a pair of the hospital issue pants and no shirt.

His body looked just like Sam remembered it from just a little while earlier. It looked just as smoothly muscled and compelling as before. He tried to make himself look away.

"Well, thanks to you, I've got nothing to wear." Dean turned to him, a calculating look in his eyes.

"What?"

"Now that you've warmed it up for me, I think I'll be having my shirt back now. 'Sides, green's not your color."

"But what will **I **wear?"

"You should have some standard issue stuff laying around." Dean's eyes were fixed as he moved towards Sam. It was clear he wasn't giving up on his shirt without a fight.

"Well, then, so should you!" Sam got into a defensive position, tucking his legs under him and holding his fists up.

Dean was stalking around the side of the bed. "Nope, gave all of it away except for a few of the pants."

"They have all my stuff in laundry," Sam shot out.

"Yeah, well maybe you should have thought about that before blowing through two of my shirts, princess. I have to wash my own stuff by hand. I'm no Sally homemaker here. I don't like it, but those are the rules, so I got no choice."

_Oh, so that explains why people mostly didn't wear plainclothes, _Sam was probably much easier for most to wear the hospital's garments and have them laundered for them.

Dean grabbed Sam's wrists, taking him by surprise. "We can do this the easy way," he said ominously, voice low, "or the hard way."

Sam's heart was beating in his throat. This was violating both rules he'd set for himself regarding Dean not 5 minutes ago: the proximity rule and the eyes rule, and already he was fighting his reaction to it.

"You really want it back after I was already wearing it?" He averted his eyes, but was met with an up close and personal view of Dean's well-defined upper body and chest. 'Sculpted' came to mind, though it was tasteful and still looked natural. Problem was, Sam was becoming more than overly aware of a tiny detail such as seeing his nipples, and it was embarrassing the hell out of him just now. The term half-naked was really appropriate and his mind was running rampant with the 'naked' aspect of the word.

Dean wasn't responding, and Sam was afraid to meet his gaze. Anyway, he needed a diversion from the heat he could feel in his face. "Okay, I'll take it off," he said, pulling at his wrists. "Just let go."

He felt Dean's hands slowly release his arms, trailing down them slightly. The air felt heavy and charged. He started to pull the shirt up and was surprised as hell when Dean said, "Never mind, keep it," in a roughened voice and lips brushed his.

It was such a light touch, and yet it ripped through him with voracity. His brain stuttered and could not get past the fact that Dean had just technically kissed him...

...and was still...

Soft, firm lips were moving against his, sharpening the ache behind his belly button, and causing his face to flush thoroughly. The tiny, exploring flick of a tongue against his lower lip, and the heat of Dean's mouth opening against his nearly undid him. He wanted this so badly, but wasn't even sure what 'this' _was_. He only knew that he wasn't supposed to want it. He only knew he was supposed to fight it - this feeling that was stealing his breath as slick heat slid between his lips and he tasted Dean for the first time.

He ached.

Burned.

He reached up to feel spiky hair beneath his fingers, sliding his hands through it, and Dean was pushing him down onto the bed.

_Yes, _he thought, heart lodged like a lump in his throat.

A moment later, Dean broke the kiss and was pulling back, hands still pressing Sam down. "No," he said under his breath. He muttered something else, but it was too faint to make out.

_No?_ Sam was confused. "Dean? What is it?" Dean was not meeting his eyes, and the hands on his shoulders almost felt like they were shaking.

"I'm sorry," his roommate said in a strange voice before slipping off the bed. Dean grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the room.

"Dean?" Sam called after him, hopping off of the bed himself. "Dean!"

* * *

><p>Dean ran down the hall, trying to outrun himself and the gravity of what he'd just done... and what he'd almost given into. He felt utterly panicked, aggrieved, self-deprecating. Violent.<p>

He'd just crossed the line.

He'd been trying so desperately not to. It had been close, a few times, but he'd always managed to scrape by. But now he'd gone and made that transgression against his brother, his poor, unsuspecting brother...

His eyes burned and anger at himself boiled in his veins. He wanted to slit his wrists. Or drink himself into harsh oblivion. Something. Anything to take over what he was feeling right now.

Anything to quiet the lust still pumping in his veins, and make himself pay for it being there in the first place.

"Hey, Winchester," someone called out. "You can't go around dressed like that."

Dean turned blazing eyes upon the speaker. It was an orderly. "Like what, Fred?" he asked with an aggressive smile, flipping his jacket open further. He was getting the urge to make a scene. To fight. "Maybe I ran out of clothes."

Fred the orderly said, "No problem. Hang tight and I'll find you something."

Dean stood there, watching his red hair bob down the hall and felt both disappointed and relieved. Fred didn't seem up for a fight, or maybe he was sensing the atmosphere and figured he didn't want to be involved. Dean didn't blame him. He was in a shit mood and Fred probably didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of it anyway.

On the other hand, Dean was feeling less than patient at the moment. He turned on his heel and headed deeper into the facility. He had to spend this frustration somewhere.

_Maybe I should try getting underground? _He was in a perfectly reckless mood for breaking in down there, seeing the tunnels and rooms and getting some answers. The only thing was, his salt shaker was empty. Not to mention, if he did encounter something while in a mood like this... Dad would beat the shit out of him for going into a situation without his head screwed on straight.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Zippo lighter he'd won off of Garnet. As far as he knew, the kid didn't smoke, so it was a mystery as to why he'd even had one. He flicked it open and watched the flame burn bright. He passed his fingers through it, savoring the burn as it licked at them. He wanted a smoke, but they were back in the room. He wanted something sharp to cut himself with, but he pretty much knew that he wouldn't find something like that anywhere. He'd settle for a drink, but the only bastard he knew with any alcohol was Pokey. And maybe Jared. He was seriously low on options here.

"You're sinking to new lows, Winchester," a self-satisfied voice said cryptically.

Anger flared in response to the gloating form of Gordon as he morphed out of the shadows. "And what lows are those, you crazy bastard?"

"Oh, there **is** the public indecency," he gestured to Dean's shirtless torso under his jacket. "But then there is playing with fire." His tone was all-knowing. "How does it feel? Give you a rush?"

Dean leered and held the flame out to the dark-skinned man. "I'd be more than happy to let you try it out for yourself." _I'll set your stupid ass on fire._

Gordon smiled, strolling around to his left, making Dean turn. "Oh, I don't mean that. I mean the _real_ fire you're playing with. Poor little Sammy Winchester... boy, do you have him fooled."

Dean felt his blood run cold. "What are you talking about?"

"See, I always knew you were crazy, Dean." He laughed. "That much is obvious." He continued his circling, and his eyes were steady, banked with volatile aggression. "But I never even..." he painted the air with his hands, grin growing, "_imagined_... what a sick fuck you'd turn out to be." He shook his head, amused. "You see, I hear things from folks. I hear quite a lot of things. Seems like we weren't the only ones who didn't know you were brothers. Seems like Sammy doesn't know boo, either. Not unless he likes the thought of taking it up the ass, which is bad enough, but from his own brother?"

Gordon _tsked_ at him and he felt white hot rage.

"Sam's not like that," he said through clenched teeth. How in the fuck was Gordon getting his intel? Did he have people stationed outside their room or what?

"Like what? A perverted freak like you?"

"Keep talking, Gordon, you might even get to see what I'm like when I'm angry."

"Oh, I don't think so. You've had a solid grip on your temper ever since Sam came along. Are you trying to impress your sweetheart? Or did they tell you it's the only way you'd be allowed to see him?"

Rage was flicking behind Dean's eyes. He was seeing red. Black. Red. Gordon may have been right in that he'd been taking pains to rein in his temper, but he was going too fucking far talking about Sam like this. He was pushing Dean's buttons, and he had no idea what he was getting himself into. Like a kid playing with a hot stove, turning knobs and getting drawn in by the glow of hot coils.

"So, when are you going to tell him, Dean? Before or _after _you fuck him?"

Self-control snapped and Dean's waking mind took a holiday. Fury was a blinding light, white hot, and it was only through his fists pummeling flesh and bone, and through the tilt of his own body that he knew he had Gordon down on the ground and was beating the shit out of him. His hands felt warm. Sticky.

He had the passing thought that he shouldn't take things too far, that he should let up at some point and try not to kill the guy outright, but he couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. All the pent up anger at Gordon, all the helplessness and self-loathing he'd felt in the situation with Sam... hell, even being in this place... it poured through him, finally finding an outlet. His blood sang as he rendered Gordon speechless and spitting blood. Things were cracking and crunching from time to time beneath his hands. A nose? A rib? He wasn't properly sure and didn't care.

Doing this felt right.

It felt fucking right, and he knew he was justified. This was for all the shit Gordon Walker had given him practically since coming here, and this was for all the things he'd said or implied about Sam. This was for him sticking his nose into other people's business just one goddamn time too many.

"Holy shit!"

Dean registered an intruder upon his private conversation with Gordon. But he wasn't done yet. He wasn't nearly finished here. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifting his lolling head off of the ground. His face was a mess. Blood was everywhere. Probably all over him, too. Dean felt nothing looking at him. Nothing except maybe some urgency not to get caught after he'd finished what he'd started. If he hit the nasal bone just right, he could shove it through Gordon's rotten, worthless brain. He'd never tried it before, just heard that it could be done, but it was worth a shot.

Something solid connected with the side of Dean's head and he was knocked to the side, losing his grip on his opponent. His head spun a bit, the blow landing near his temple, and when he started to recover, he realized his arms were being restrained from behind.

He snarled, dropping his body low and twisting, offsetting the restrainer's balance. He grabbed a fistful of their shirt at their shoulder with his left hand, and their left arm with his right as it became free, then tossed them over his shoulder with a one-armed shoulder throw. It was a sloppy _Ippon Seoinage_, given the circumstances, but it had the interloper on his back and it was easy to transition his caught left arm into a nasty armlock. All he'd have to do now is twist it a little this way or that way and it would be hurting like a motherfucker as it tore up the shoulder or elbow joint.

"Dean, it's me," his downed attacker panted. "Stop. Please."

If Dean hadn't felt his world warp before, it sure was warping now. He recognized the green shirt first - his own. Then it was Sam's strained face that swam into view, bringing with it a swarm of overwhelming feelings.

Surprise, but then shame, remorse, and fear. All of a sudden, it was like his conscience had just bitch-slapped him in the face. With an anvil. He glanced at himself, the arms of his jacket, spattered red, and then Gordon's still form several feet away. "What are you doing here?" he heard himself ask. His voice sounded cold and empty, even to his own ears. He hadn't released Sam's arm. His brother was wincing at the pressure held upon it.

_Jesus Christ, what am I doing?_

Sense was filtering back in. If anyone were to find out what he'd done...

"Dean, let me go. We can talk about this." Grey eyes were talking him down like a wild animal. A violent, frenzied animal. "I had to stop you. You didn't want to kill him, you just got carried away."

_You're wrong,_ he thought, staring back at the most precious thing he had in this world. _I wanted to._

_((Just like you wanted to do more than just kiss Sam,))_ some part of him whispered. _((Only he didn't know he should stop you.)) _

_((You can barely control yourself without his help. How pathetic.))_

"C'mon, Dean, someone is bound to come by any second," Sam reasoned with him, still on the ground under Dean's hold. "Do you want them to find you like this?"

He knew Sam was right, but his fingers were sticking to him like they were glued to his flesh. He liked the look of Sam's discomfort, his tousled hair, and his pleading eyes. He wondered if this was the closest he would ever be to his brother again.

Shame coursed through him again, and disgust at his own disturbing thoughts. He made his hands loosen and Sam slipped from his grasp.

Suddenly, the sight of Gordon made him sick. His stomach lurched and the smell of iron was filling his nostrils.

Good god, were those teeth he saw on the floor?

"Dean, c'mon," Sam was tugging at his arm. He noticed Sam was doing his absolute best not to look at Gordon. His face was pale.

Dean let himself be led into one of the many halls that branched out from that main intersection. His feet were leaden. His thoughts were just as heavy. Why was Sam even bothering with him right now, after what he'd just seen? Dean felt tarnished, soiled, and in danger of contaminating Sam with it. He couldn't let that happen. He _couldn't_. It would eat away at the light of him, starting with Sam's hand that was wrapped so tightly about his wrist, crawling up his brother's arm and burning away his innocence and morals until he wasn't even himself anymore.

"Here," Sam said, opening a door and ushering him in. It was the public locker room and showers. "Now strip."

Dean gave him a look like he was crazy.

Sam met his eyes with that obstinate look. "You're covered in bloo-" he broke off, eyes flicking away. "You look a mess and we'd never make it back to our room without being seen. You need to clean up."

"Why are you doing this?" Dean asked flatly. "You saw what I did to him." He lifted his arms out. "This is his _blood_. What justification could I possibly have to give you that would make this all right?"

"Just shut up, okay?" Sam snapped. "I don't _know_. Just wash it off of you already."

Dean took off his jacket, laying it aside on one of the wooden benches. The hospital issue pants he was wearing were flecked with blood. He took them off and laid them beside the jacket. He might have hesitated over removing his boxers, but then again, he _had_just been ordered to strip and shower, and he didn't have much fight left in him. So what if Sam saw him nude? It didn't matter. If he liked what he saw, Gordon was a stellar example of why not to get close. And if he was revolted, then all the better. That was how things should be.

He shouldn't know things like how Sam's mouth felt against his. He shouldn't have ever known fierce desire like that. He shouldn't have ever known how good Sam tasted...

Dean turned on the shower and winced as it spat out cold water at first. _And here my poor, sweet brother doesn't even know who I am. He thinks he's taking care of the resident neighborhood psycho. He thinks he's dealing with this pretty well, yet he's struggling and it's only the tip of the iceberg._

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sam pick up his leather jacket and spread it over his knees as he sat, wiping it down with a wet paper towel. There was a scowl upon his face.

Dean scrubbed at his skin and watched Sam work.

After several moments, Sam glanced up at him and his expression darkened. "You know," he said in a terse voice, "the greater part of me is wondering why running out and doing _this _was preferable to staying in the room with me."

_Modest, even now? You want to know why I couldn't just sleep with you? Is that what you think you want?_

"Because that can't happen," he said through gritted teeth, focusing on the ugly tile before him. "Just trust me on this."

Sam laughed humorlessly. "Oh that's rich, coming from you," he said, flipping the jacket and working on the other sleeve. The wet paper towel in his hands was more red than pink. "You just spazzed out and beat some guy nearly to death and you think I should trust in your judgment?"

"Yes."

"God," Sam muttered under his breath angrily. "...fucking crazy."

"Watch your mouth," Dean said sharply. He may have admitted as much to himself, but he wasn't ready to hear something like that out of Sam.

"Or what, I'll end up like him?" Sam said sarcastically, bent over his task.

"Maybe," Dean said menacingly, slamming his hand upon the shower lever, shutting it off. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Then why are you taking the effort to warn me?" he countered, unimpressed.

That snotty tone was pissing Dean off. He got out of the shower area, dripping water across the floor as he walked. Why didn't Sam know when to quit? _Why does he trust me at all? _Because that was what this sort of behavior meant - Sam fucking _trusted_ him.

He snapped his jacket up out of Sam's hands with a dark look. "Because maybe I do things sometimes that even _**I**_ regret," he said acidly. "And Gordon back there wasn't one of them."

He shrugged back into his jacket and pulled on his boxers and his pants, turned inside-out so as to be less obviously redecorated, then left.

* * *

><p>Sam sat, unmoving, for a long time. The shower was still dripping from where Dean had been showering not long ago.<p>

He picked up the patient shirt he'd been carrying and slammed it into the garbage can angrily. He'd gotten it from an orderly named Fred, whom he'd crossed paths with in the hall. He had been going to give it to his roommate, but never even got the chance.

He looked down at his arms. They were smeared red from where Dean's hands had touched him. He went to the sink and scrubbed at them fiercely, replacing the red of blood with the red of raw skin. The water ran pink for a long time.

BREAK!

"All right, Lewis," Dean said stonily, cornering Pokey in his room, "hand over your stash."

"D-Dean, man, I don't know what you're talking about," the smaller man said, holding his hands up. He smiled nervously. "H-Hey, did you know your pants were on inside out?" He laughed a little, eyes darting around like he was trying to figure out how to escape. "What'd you do, get a little action and make a hasty retreat?"

Dean rushed him, slamming him into the wall next to his bed. "You say one more fucking smart-ass thing, and you will fucking regret it. Now where is your goddamn stash? Don't play coy with me, Lewis, I will _end _you."

Lewis winced against the new discomfort in his shoulder. He didn't find himself enamored of pushing his luck. "Damn, you sound so serious when you say my real name," he muttered to himself. "I have a bottle of Scotch in the ceiling."

Green eyes flicked to the ceiling tiles and then back to him. "Where?"

"You mind letting me go first?"

"Yes, I do. You're a weasel."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, my frie-"

The door opened behind them and Garnet walked in. "Lover's spat?" he said blandly, not overly concerned for his roommate's safety, or his own for that matter or he wouldn't be mouthing off like that. It was hard to tell though whether he was suggesting the spat was with Pokey or with Sam. The running jokes about Dean's roommate had been less than funny to him.

"Garnet," Dean growled, not in the mood for either.

The black-haired youth shrugged. He reached into the closet, his hair was like a curtain when unbound like it was now, and pulled out a bottle from a high shelf. "Here," he said, walking over and holding it out to Dean. "That's what you wanted, right?"

Pokey strained to see over Dean's shoulder. "Ah!" he cried, eyeing the bottle of Scotch and struggling. "That's mine!"

Garnet gave him a rare smile; it barely turned up his lips. "I told you to give me back that dream catcher," he said in his deadpan voice. "Payback's a bitch." He plopped the nearly full bottle of liquor into Dean's hands. "I'd avoid the usual spots. Try the janitor closet in K ward. Sources say it's unlocked."

Dean let go of Lewis, having gotten what he came for. He was surprised that Garnet had come through for him like this. Though maybe it was just revenge on his klepto roommate. "Thanks."

"Sure," Garnet said, watching Dean slip out the door.

"Goddamn it, G," Lewis said. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"Shut up, Pokey," he said in his flat, informative tone. "It's payback. Plus, I probably saved your damn life just now."

Lewis readjusted his shirt. "Whaddaya mean?"

"God, you really are slow. Couldn't you tell Winchester was bugging out?" Garnet shook his head. Pokey really was the best name for his retarded roommate; that and the smack it made to his manhood. _Lewis_ was always wanting so desperately to get some action and 'poke' some girls but never got lucky, because he was a poor sod with a habit for stealing _and _getting his lame ass caught every time.

Pokey shook his head. "He seemed irritable?"

Garnet flopped down onto his bed, on the other side of the room from Pokey's. "Yeah, well I just saw Gordon being carried out of here on a stretcher, and it didn't look like 'irritable' happened to _him_."

"I don't get it."

"Jesus, man," Garnet's voice gained some inflection, annoyance creeping in. "Somebody beat the ever-living hell out of that asshole Gordon, and I'm betting it was Dean."

Pokey's face registered delayed panic. "Really?"

"You dumb fuck," Garnet sighed and rolled over to grab some shut eye. It was none of his business, but he wondered what was going on with Winchester. He was usually the most normal seeming one of their group. Not that he blamed him for losing it on Gordon, but still... it had been pretty brutal. It almost lived up to the stories.

Well, he hoped the alcohol helped some.

* * *

><p>Dean wasted a good amount of time getting completely hammered. It made him feel better, even though it also made him feel worse.<p>

He knew that drinking wouldn't solve anything, but what it did mean is that he was required to resolve things _later_rather than sooner. He could live with that. It also kept him from thinking. Mostly.

The biting liquor had the run of his system and was making a messy haze of his thoughts. They'd probably found Gordon already and a small panic would be forming among the residents, wondering who had nearly ganked him and if anyone was next on the assailant's list. With his history, there was a good chance he was suspect in more than a few minds.

Hell, plenty of people had also seen Gordon all up in his shit on many occasions.

He tossed the bottle aside, and rose to his feet, swaying only slightly. He should get back to the room. He couldn't avoid Sam forever. Fuck all if he knew what he could possibly say to him... but he couldn't leave things like this. He ran a few scenarios in his head.

_'Sam, there's something I need to tell you... and you can hit me later if you want.'_

_'Hey Sammy, I'm sorry I jumped you earlier. Um, yeah, it really is Dean.'_

_'I'm your brother. Hate me yet?'_

_Christ. _How was he supposed to tell Sammy_** now**_, after fucking sticking his tongue down his throat?

He looked at the bottle he'd cast aside with a bland gaze. It was glass. He could always smash it and fillet his wrists after all. Then he could avoid this whole awkward mess and having Sam potentially hate him. "Oh, but wouldn't _that _be easy?" he groaned sarcastically, stretching his arms over his head with listless grace.

He never was one for taking the easy way out. Plus, he owed Sam the truth. Even if it was ugly.

He'd tell him in the morning, when he was sober. He didn't need to be slurring out shit that didn't make sense.

Dean stood with his ear nearly against the door, checking for sounds of life. _All quiet on the western front._He opened the door carefully and confirmed with his eyes.

He slipped out of the closet and closed it quietly behind him, skulking back to their room without hassle.

He opened the room's door just as quietly. Good thing for him, the lights were off, meaning Sam was asleep. He'd worried momentarily that Sam wouldn't be there at all, that he'd have requested a room change, but he could make out the form of him all tucked into bed.

Dean tiptoed in and unzipped his jacket as quietly as he could. He loved it but he sure as hell didn't want to sleep in the damn thing.

He'd just slipped it off and lain it on the foot of the bed when he heard movement. The creak of the bed?

He turned and saw that Sam was sitting up now, facing him in the dark. Terror struck him suddenly, though he wasn't sure why, or what he was picking up on.

"So, Dean, when were you going to tell me?" Sam said in a tone that was unlike any Dean had ever heard from him before. It was implacable and shot his veins through with ice.

"Tell you what?" he responded roughly, hoping that somehow he was getting this wrong. Hoping somehow that Sam didn't _know_.

"That you _are_ my brother, you lying asshole."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:**Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - "Smashing the Opponent"**  
><em><br>__Smack me again__  
><em>_And I can't believe it's true__  
><em>_Smashing the opponent__  
><em>_Was not my intention to do__  
><em>_Neither did you_

_Foresee such an outcome__  
><em>_To the unnecessary ending__  
><em>_I wish I could retrace all my steps__  
><em>_And erase my mistakes__  
><em>_With you_

_I wanted to say__  
><em>_You shouldn't suffer this way__  
><em>_I wanted to say__  
><em>_I hope I can take it away_

_Tempt me again and I will forget the truth__  
><em>_Backing your decision__  
><em>_Was something I neglected to do__  
><em>_Even for you__  
><em>_If you feel rage…To strike me with revenge__  
><em>_I will be standing right here__  
><em>_Waiting without fear__  
><em>_For you_

_I wanted to say__  
><em>_You shouldn't suffer this way__  
><em>_I wanted to say__  
><em>_I hope I can take it away_


	10. Deeply Disturbed

_  
><strong>Asylum<strong>  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 9: Deeply Disturbed<span>

"So, Dean, when were you going to tell me?" Sam said in a tone that was unlike any Dean had ever heard from him before. It was implacable but shot his veins through with ice.

"Tell you what?" he responded roughly, hoping that somehow he was getting this wrong. Hoping somehow that Sam didn't _know_.

"That you _are_ my brother, you lying asshole."

* * *

><p>Dean felt his legs go rubbery and he had to sit down. "How did you find out?" he asked hoarsely.<p>

"Really, Dean?" Sam bit out, "You've been fucking lying to me like this and the first thing you want to know is how I fucking _found you out_?"

"I was going to tell you," Dean said under his breath. Sam so rarely got angry, he wasn't really sure how to react.

"Before or after you tried to _fuck _me?" he spat.

Fury snapped over Dean, hearing his little brother parrot Gordon's words back at him. They sullied him. "Where the hell did you hear something like that?"

"You know where," Sam said, standing up and getting in Dean's face. "I heard the two of you talking before you hulked out. I just didn't know it was about_ me_."

"Well, congratulations," Dean said snidely. "Now you know Gordon is a dick who likes to make shit up." Unless Sam heard his name used in the conversation, he wouldn't have known who the fight was about and he would have acted much differently after pulling Dean off of the guy. He had to have heard something after that, from someone else. But who?

"Is that why you got so pissed at him, then?" Sam countered. "Because he was 'full of it'?"

"And why not?" Dean yelled, getting to his feet. "So now I'm supposed to stand still and listen to some dickhead spouting off shit about my little brother?"

"Why didn't you _tell _me?" Sam shouted back. "I found out by hearing random people talking about Gordon in the halls. I got to hear all about my crazy, violent brother from some complete strangers!" He gave Dean's chest a shove, emphasizing his anger. "How was I _not _going to find out? You think Winchester is a common name, Dean, do you?"

"Hey, lay off," Dean said harshly, knocking his hands back. "You weren't the one with doctors half up your ass telling you to keep your pie hole shut or else you'd be sending your brother back into a fucking coma."

"So you were stringing me along just to convince me that you weren't my brother?" Sam's voice was incredulous.

"YEAH, something like that." Dean ran his hand through his hair, a scowl on his face. It was kind of a lie. Kind of _really _misleading. But Sam's version was a better one, so he was sticking with it. "Well, what was I supposed to do, Sammy? You were seconds away from figuring it out every time I turned around."

Lightning cracked across his jaw as Sam launched a powerful hook-shot through his face. It unbalanced him and he landed against the edge of the mattress, then slid down onto the floor between the beds. "OW, dammit," he growled as he held his throbbing jaw. "The fuck was that for?" Damn, but the kid had some upper arm strength.

"For fucking kissing me, you asshole," Sam swore. "What in the hell am I supposed to make of that anyway? Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?"

"Well, if I didn't before, I sure would now."

Sam had every right to be pissed. He had to be thinking of the attraction he'd felt and was now fighting the very notion of its existence now that he knew it was for his long-lost, lying, asshole of a brother. And, as far as he knew, Sam was straight as an arrow, making this a double whammy.

"So you're back to jokes already," Sam said darkly. "Get up so I can hit you again."

"Look, Sammy," he appealed, "I'm sorry. I really am, but do you think that punching me is going to make you feel any better?"

"I'm willing to test it out."

Dean groaned and got to his feet. This was going to suck. "You sure you're not pissed because maybe you liked it a little?" The words had barely gotten past his smart-ass mouth, then _pow! _Pain seared the lower half of his face as Sam's fist connected again and he tasted blood. He hit back reflexively and felt his bruised fist collide with Sam's cheek, and heard him curse.

"Goddamnit, why are you hitting me back?"

"Look," Dean said, "I'm sorry and all, but I'm not going to sit here while you make hamburger out of my face. You wanna fight, we'll fight. But I'm not going to be your punching ba-"

Hands clamped onto his shoulders a split second before a knee slammed into his abdomen, making him double over. _Motherfucking_ _OW. _"Bitch," Dean said, returning the favor as he straightened, sending an underhanded fist into Sam's midsection, knocking the breath from him in an audible exhale. Conveniently, Sam was in the perfect position to also be caught into a headlock. Dean put him in one and torqued him into an elbow lock as well for good measure.

"Ow! Jerk!" Sam cried out as he struggled and Dean tightened his hold.

"Are you finished yet?"

"Hell no," Sam ground out, trying to wriggle free. "I'm going to kill you."

"What for?" Dean was feeling pretty worn out. Beating the shit out of Gordon, threatening his sort-of friend for alcohol and then getting wasted, only to have two solid clocks to the face from his brother who'd been seriously wronged... stuff like that could really take the spring out of a person's step. He just wanted to lay down, go to sleep, and never wake up. "For a kiss? C'mon, it wasn't that bad. Just forget it already."

"Shut up!" Sam yelled with scorching intensity, his voice quavering slightly. "You knew, Dean, but I didn't!" The accusation was heavy, the words furious and seeming forced. Sam was struggling, caught between venting his anger and saying too much. "I-" he tried to continue, choking on the word as a fine tremor worked its way through his body.

Dean felt like a total bastard. If only he'd been strong enough to fight it, Sam wouldn't have to feel like this or be upset like this. Sam thought that he had been messing around, just trying to be convincing and that he'd felt nothing all the while. He couldn't be further from the truth, but Dean couldn't enlighten him. They had to cut free of this and move forward. It was what was best for Sam. He couldn't drag him further into this debased attraction that existed between them.

A drop of something wet hit his arm and he realized Sam was crying.

_Oh, hell. _He felt his own eyes tear up.

"C'mon," Dean said heavily, "let's go lay down." The only thing for this was probably to just sleep it off. Though that probably wouldn't be happening unless Sam was restrained, or else his little brother would be busy trying to kick his head in. He kept Sam loosely in the headlock while climbing onto the bed and pulling him along. If Sam resisted or tried to retaliate, he could easily bring him to heel.

He didn't want to fight anymore, so he'd just have to strong-arm his brother into feeling more peaceable.

Dean settled back on the bed, shoving the pillows atop each other and reclining upon them. Sam lay partially against him because of the submission hold, still breathing through clenched teeth, body tight with anger.

It was a poor example of 'relaxation', laying like this, and was closeness without being close. They'd never been at such odds with each other before.

His heart ached. How could he have lost control and kissed Sam like that? He'd been holding it together for so long now. Was seeing someone half naked really such hell on his self-control?

At the time, he'd even been stopping Sam from giving the shirt back, realizing at the last moment that he wasn't prepared to see all that bare skin again. Then he saw the way Sam was looking at him, saw the color rise in his cheeks and the suddenly averted eyes... and the next thing he knew, he'd leaned forward and was melting into the hottest set of lips he'd ever kissed. And Sam was kissing him back, just as wet and dirty as Dean could have wanted. It rode through him hard and fast, and that was when the desire had had him by the nads.

His mind was on overdrive, wanting, imagining, craving. He wanted to touch, taste, and feel_ everything_. He'd pushed Sam down, and it was only with his brother's lack of resistance that he realized how easily it could all happen. He saw how easy it would be to screw everything up. It was then that truth smacked him in the face, making him panic. Sam would never be able to forgive something like this, or going further, even if he wanted it at the time. There was _no way. _

"I hate you, Dean," Sam said, his voice muffled against Dean's side. It sounded a little more petulant than pissed off.

"...I know."

"No, you don't." Sam shuffled a little bit, discovering to his frustration that Dean's hold was remaining very effective at keeping him down. "You weren't there when I needed someone the most," he accused. "I had to rely on a _stranger _instead of my own brother." He meant that because of Dean's masquerade, he couldn't be there for him in the same capacity. All Dean had been able to offer was a stranger's empathy. "Dean," his tone shifted, sounding a little more like an appeal, "do you even care that Mom's...?"

_Dead._

That was what he was saying. "I did the best I could, Sammy. I'm sorry it wasn't enough for you." He felt a tear start to slip down his cheek and he had to take a deep breath and focus on locking his emotions down. "Of course I care that Mom-" he stopped, remembering to watch his words around Sam, "...had an accident."

"You didn't hate her?"

"No, not exactly."

"Well, I did," Sam said in a surprisingly cold tone. "Underneath everything, I could never forgive her for splitting us up and then refusing to tell me anything about where you were." There was a faint sniffle then, a flicker of emotion. The coldness rubbed out from his voice, ushering in tears as he said, "But... I still really loved her, you know?" Sorrow was carved into the words, and regret.

"Yeah."

He looked down upon the light brown wavy hair of his brother's head. There wasn't much else he could say, but he totally understood the mixed feelings. He had some in him right now, about Mom and also about Sam. This stupid submission hold was probably the closest thing he could give to comfort his little brother at the moment, the closest thing to a hug. It forced them to remain in contact, even though that was the last thing Sam wanted right now.

"I missed you so much, Dean," Sam said then, the tears still riding his voice. Unspoken was the accusation, _After I finally found you, why did you have to lie to me and fuck things up like this?_

"Me, too," he admitted, losing the battle with his own tears. He closed his eyes, tilting his head towards the ceiling in an effort to thwart their descent. His arms twitched where they lay about Sam in an almost hug. _Me, too._

* * *

><p>Morning light trickled into the room and it was Sam that woke first. The rise and fall of rhythmic breathing reminded him that his head lay pillowed upon his brother.<p>

_I finally found him._

Part of him was elated. But another part felt dark and twisted, angry and bitter. He lifted his head, feeling Dean's arm slide from around him. Their legs were twined in an approximation of the intimacy he'd been made to want from the man he'd _thought _was only his roommate.

_Damn you. Why did you do this to me?_

It had been worse than simply 'a shock' to find that the one who had kissed him like that - who had been making him busily bend his morals fore and aft - was his own _brother_. His actual, honest-to-god brother!

Now he was left holding the bag while Dean shrugged off the matter.

He'd said he was sorry, sure, but 'sorry' wasn't quite enough to cover something like this.

Sam stared down at his sleeping face, dismay piercing his chest. He knew every line of that arresting face, every curve, every freckle. He still felt the same pull as before, and the same heat as his eyes drifted over lips that were so full they appeared to be pouting when not drawn out into one of their many expressive smiles or smirks.

So now he knew the truth, but his body and his feelings did not know the difference.

Dean's lashes fluttered slightly as he woke and opened his eyes, which were fern green in this light. They were so beautiful, so compelling, and it pissed Sam off. He looked away, deciding that extricating his legs from Dean's was top priority.

"Still mad at me?" his older brother asked needlessly, rubbing a hand through his dark hair. Sam was noticing he did that when feeling uncertain.

"Yeah," he said shortly. "Still mad."

"Aw, come on, Sammy," Dean grumbled, his face falling. "Even after that heart-to-heart we had about Mom?"

"I seem to recall you having me in a headlock," Sam said pointedly. "Sorry if that didn't exactly give me a warm fuzzy." He could already tell he was going to forgive Dean, as asinine as that was; it was always hard to stay mad at him, even when they were kids. But Dean didn't need to know that.

"What do you want, Sammy? You want a popsicle or something? Cherry? Orange Cream?"

"Oh, shut it! I'm not five anymore. You can't fix things like that."

"Five? You were still sucking on those things at ten!"

Sam put a hand over his face, the innuendo making it flush. "Dean," he muttered.

"Oh," his brother said in surprise. "Sorry, uh, I wasn't-"

"Whatever," he said under his breath. Even on a good day, Dean loved to tease him. But if he was going to be reacting to every little thing, intentional or not, this was going to be torturous. "Move, I need to use the bathroom."

Dean moved aside without comment, but Sam could feel his gaze upon him until he shut the bathroom door behind him.

He drained his tank and then got into the shower.

_I have to get this out of my system. _The problem was... up until a little while ago, his brother had been nothing more than a collection of memories that lived on inside him. His 'roommate', however, had been _real_ and_ immediate_, not to mention supposedly _**not **_related to him. He'd been safe - only reminiscent of those old memories. But not anymore. Now he was anything but 'safe', and Sam found that he was still attracted to him.

That kiss, and the desire that had been pulled from him like an unending string of yarn... he couldn't forget it. He couldn't forget the feelings that had surged through him as they'd sunk down upon the bed. He'd been ready... ready for whatever came next.

Sam's face was brutally hot as he slipped a hand down to touch himself, doing what he could to kill that wayward desire, grateful for the racketing noise the water made. He had to lay aside his feelings for the other Dean, and remember how he felt about his _brother_ Dean.

The distinction was harder to make than it should have been.

And how could it not be? They were the same fucking person!

Other-Dean's eyes were the same color as his-Dean's eyes. They laughed the same, moved the same. And... they made him feel the same. Their lips would be the same, and so would their hands, their caresses, their voices in his ear...

Reaction flooded him, shaking through his body as his brain overloaded itself on every piece of slightly off-color history they'd shared over the past few weeks. Every extended look, every solicitous joke, every near kiss...

He gritted his teeth as he shuddered, release snapping through him with more strength than he'd ever felt before. Even his poor, dead girlfriend, the one he was introducing to his mom, the one that he'd deemed to be 'The One', even she had never made him feel even a _fraction_of this.

He sank down to the floor of the tub, eyes stinging, and wrapped his arms around himself. This was so fucked up. So beyond fucked up. It was like he was in love with his brother, but he couldn't be. It was wrong, and mental, and he wasn't sure if he could help it. The fact that he felt the urge to apologize to his dead girlfriend just made everything that much worse.

* * *

><p>"Bobby," Dean said later that morning, sitting in the psychiatrist's office. "We need new rooming assignments."<p>

Sam, who was sitting near him, looked up in surprise. Dean hadn't mentioned anything about this to him.

The psychiatrist was still looking at them with incredulity written all over his face, as he had since first clapping eyes on them. He re-adjusted his tie, which clashed a little with his grey suit, looking like he was debating saying something. After a moment, he asked Dean, "Did you tell him, then?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "It was a big hit."

Bobby leaned back in his chair. "You boys look like hell warmed over."

"Sammy's still pissed at me since I had to lie to him," Dean said, his eyes flicking to Sam's, telling him to shut up. "So I think it's for the best."

Dr. Singer turned to the younger brother. "Sam?"

"Yeah, he's right," Sam confirmed. He caught Dean's eye and asked him silently, _'What the hell?' _Dean shot him the 'just trust me' face, making him roll his eyes.

"Well," Dr. Singer said, contemplating the state of them. "We can't have more fights." He rubbed his hand over his short beard. After what happened to Gordon, the facility was in a state of lock down. Even a twitch of explosive behavior was bound to be medicated aggressively. Staffers had bets that it was Dean that had worked Gordon over so hard, but it was only speculation; there was no solid proof.

An orderly by the name of Fred had seen Dean in the hall some time before Walker was found, but Dean seemed to have an alibi. One of his card buddies, Garnet, mentioned being with him at the time.

Alcohol was grudgingly mentioned (after much convincing on his part), which was most definitely against facility rules, but he was going to pretend he didn't hear about that for now. But it made sense, because afterwards, it seemed that Dean had taken the plunge, laying the truth out on his brother and getting into a fistfight for his troubles.

"Sam," Robert said carefully, "you do realize that it was under my discretion that Dean lied to you about being your brother?"

The younger Winchester scowled, wavy bangs falling into his eyes as he glared at his brother. "Sure," he said scathingly. "Along with a ton of other shit that doesn't nearly make it okay to me."

Dr. Singer wondered if Dean had lost control of his impulses, and that was the true source of the fight that had split Dean's lip and caused a nasty, swelling bruise upon Sam's high cheekbone.

"Alright, I'll approve it. Under one condition."

"What's that?" Dean asked, his green eyes sharp.

"I think it best you do not disclose to the general population that you are brothers. It helps that you entered the facility with different names, but that won't last against inquisitive minds unless you are mindful of it. They will start to ask questions if they frequently see you in each other's company."

"So what are we supposed to tell people?" Dean asked, a careless look upon his face. "That same spiel about me being the one that found him first and all that crap?"

"Yes," Robert said, "because it's true."

His real reason for this precaution was in case the boys made up. As in, really made up. Whether it was acted on or not, the two of them had a _vibe _and others would not react so well to them being family - not if they thought the boys were 'together'. Residents, gay or not, who had been found having relations with one another were not usually treated softly by other residents, but they weren't ostracized as it was not uncommon. He imagined that mood would shift, however, if a pair of brothers was discovered in such an arrangement. It would be more unique, more taboo, and something that could be easily isolated and attacked.

"Who are we going to be rooming with?" Sam asked, slightly hopeful that he might make an acquaintance here, but worried all the same.

"That has yet to be determined," Robert responded.

"Better not stick me with any of my mates," Dean warned. "We'd rip each other up in close quarters."

Dr. Singer suspected that wasn't the case, that he had another reason for the request, but he could oblige Dean. All of the members from his card circle, the patients he associated with the most, were in stable rooming assignments. There was no need to break any of those up.

"Are we done, Dr. Singer?" Sam asked. "I'm hungry."

"Do you agree not disclose the nature of your relationship with Dean to anyone, Sam?"

_Like hell I would, _Sam thought in annoyance. _I'm busily trying to convince __**myself **__otherwise. _"Yeah. No problem."

"You're free to go. I'll contact you later with the new room assignments."

"Great," Dean said, stretching like a cat. "Fan-fucking-tastic."

Once they'd left the office behind, en route to the cafeteria, Sam said, "Okay, what gives?"

"What?" Dean said, all nonchalance.

"You don't want to room with me anymore?"

Dean shrugged. "What's in it for me? Maybe things'll settle out if I'm not staring you in the face, reminding you that you're pissed at me."

"Jackass," Sam swore in irritation. Dean was supposed to suffer his ire, not switch fucking rooms because he felt like being a coward.

"It'll be easier," Dean said so quietly, Sam almost didn't hear him.

"What?" Sam said sharply.

Dean flashed him pained green eyes, then looked away, putting his hands behind his head. "It'll be easier for you," he said with another shrug, as if Sam was someone who needed mollified.

_Your act isn't fooling me_. Dean was known to pretend indifference even when he cared about something, or act bored when something had actually hurt him. At least, Sam had seen it when they were younger. It felt like he was doing the same thing now, but his actions and words were wrapped up in the anger Sam felt, and he couldn't clearly determine if that was truly the case.

He wasn't entirely sure that Dean had just been toying with him before, with all of the teasing and flirting and such. Maybe he actually had been acting on feelings, but if he was, he wasn't owning up to them.

"You'd better hope I don't get some psycho for a roommate," Sam warned, "or it'll be my blood on your hands."

Dean looked disturbed. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Though I guess I might always get some pervert who can't keep his hands to himself..." he trailed, determined to get a rise out of Dean.

His brother's face became shuttered and closed. "That happens, and I'll take care of it myself."

Sam didn't like the sound of that, and it was ambiguous as hell. "And what does that mean?" he pressed, grabbing hold of Dean's shirt to make him stop striding down the hall so quickly. "What would you do?"

Dean's hand rested over top of his, set to remove it, but not moving immediately to do so. Their eyes clashed and he said, "You don't want to know."

Sam bit the inside of his lip, the intensity in Dean's voice burning through him. Images of that guy Gordon flashed before his eyes. "I _want_ to know," he said stubbornly. He could still remember the feel of the tension that had been riding Dean's body when he'd pulled him off of the bloody mess he was making of the prone Gordon. He'd been more beast than man, his green eyes had been wild, crazed and, for one terrifying moment, Dean hadn't recognized him.

Dean pulled Sam's hand from him and tossed it aside. "_No_, you don't." He stalked down the hall, not looking back to see if Sam was following or not.

Sam jogged after him, a frown etching his face.

* * *

><p>"Didja see the new guy?" Garth asked the circle, throwing down a card.<p>

"Yup," Garnet said. "Saw him in the cafeteria with Winchester."

"You think he's doing him?" Pokey asked, following his roommate's card with one of his own.

"Maybe," Jared, the weightlifter said with a raised brow. "They seem pretty tight."

"Do you mind? I'm sitting right here, you assholes," Dean muttered, playing his card.

"That's right," Pokey said, face lighting as if with epiphany. "From the horse's mouth! You sleeping with the new guy, Dean? Ow-!"

"Dumb shit," Garnet said, sniggering a little as his roommate clutched his head from the epic smack Dean had cuffed him with.

"New guy's name is Sam," Dean informed them tersely, "and for the last time, I am not sleeping with him."

"Bet you want to, though," Garth twittered.

"Hey man, fuck you," Dean spat. "Not all of us are so hard up for some ass that we're gonna start slapping the other side of the fence."

"C'mon, man," Jared said peaceably. "No one said that you were."

"Thank you," Dean said with an affirming nod of his head and a scowl. Some of these motherfuckers didn't know when to quit.

Jared continued, "They're just suggesting you have a thing for Campbell, which you do."

"Aw, man," Dean said with disgust, his one ally turning against him. "Fuck all of you. I got better things to do than listen to this shit about some dude I barely know."

"Better things like what?" Pokey said, nose buried in his cards. "Like doing Campbell?"

Dean gave Lewis's chair a mighty kick, knocking it over and spilling the man onto the floor in an ungraceful crash. "Your Scotch was great, by the way," he said with a sharp, taunting smile. He knew personally how hard it was to smuggle alcohol into this place and that, for Pokey, the loss of an entire bottle had to be the equivalent of losing his left nut. "Get me some more," he suggested flatly.

He left to the sound of the small man's lips flapping open and closed like a goldfish. "Did you hear him, G?" Lewis' aggrieved voice said faintly as Dean stalked down the hall. "He drank it _all _and..." And then the little gnome was out of earshot.

Damn it, but playing cards had gotten annoying lately. Maybe he'd have to find something else with which to occupy his time.

But this answered his question at least. There was no fucking way he was bringing Sam around these harpies.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N1: I tried to update last Sunday but the site's login page wasn't working. Sorry! I also have another chapter to post but I have to get to work. I'll try to post tonight (and the regular update sometime this weekend.)  
><strong>

**A/N 2:** Chapter title is from Infected Mushroom - "Deeply Disturbed". It is more of an instrumental, voice-warp sort of thing (that even sounds like he's saying more things than he is), so the lyrics are pretty un-lyrical looking.. but here they are anyway. The song is really cool though and sort of defies description, as do most of their songs. lol.

**Infected Mushroom - "Deeply Disturbed"**

"(music)...  
>(voice):<br>And i'm deeply disturbed  
>And i'm deeply unhappy<br>And i'm deeply disturbed  
>And i'm deeply unhappy<br>And i'm deeply disturbed  
>And i'm deeply unhappy<br>And i'm deeply disturbed  
>And i'm deeply unhappy<br>(music)...  
>(voice):<br>(background sound)deeeeeeeeply disturrrrrbed  
>Deeeeeeeeply disturrrrrrrrbed<br>And i'm deeply disturbed..(background sound)..deeeeeeeeply  
>And i'm deeply unhappy ..(background sound)..disturrrrbed<br>And i'm deeply disturbed..  
>And i'm deeply unhappy<br>Deeply disturbed..(background sound)..deeply  
>And i'm deeply unhappy ..(background sound)..disturrrrbed<br>Deeply disturbed  
>And i'm deeply unhappy...<br>(music)...  
>(voice)<br>DISTURBED..."


	11. Semi Nice

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 10: Semi Nice<span>

Sam sat on his new bed in his new room, with a frown, back to the wall.

His new roommate did the same, staring back at him, only he wasn't frowning.

Sam sort of regretted making that crack to Dean about getting paired with a psycho. This guy was huge, hulking, and looked like he could crush a motorcycle in his bare hands. Or Sam's spine, in which case, he would hardly break a sweat. He had a fair number of tattoos covering pale arms the size of tree trunks.

Sam couldn't tell from his expression if he was more likely to kill him or eat him. The man had an intent sort of beady stare.

Attempts to talk had not gone well. The shaved-headed man responded monosyllabically at best. The alternative was a grunt, or merely the STARE.

Sam would love to be leaving the room right about now, but he couldn't. His roommate Bernice's bed was on the side with the door, effectively barring his exit. He thought it was utter crap that 'nice' was in the man's name. He only knew this, because the man spelled it out during their longest conversation to date.

_'Hi, I'm Sam. What's your name?'_

_'Bernice. B-E-R-N-I-C-E.' the man paused, possibly assessing him. 'I like mangoes,' he said, then gave Sam one of the original versions of the stare. 'But I don't like fruits.' _

_'Uh... good,' he'd said after he recovered. 'Me neither.' He was pretty offended if the guy was implying he looked gay, but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask for clarification or pick a fight with this one. He'd be dead before he started._

Sam did try asking what the man was in here for, but all he got was a creepy smile, so he decided to let that go, too.

He wished Dean would locate his room and come looking for him. It would give him a reason to stop this staring contest with Bear (as he'd dubbed him in his head) and get the hell out of here.

"Your hair's like a girl's," the man-bear said in his gruff voice.

Sam scowled, his eyes flicking to the side as he counted to 10. _What the hell? _ Why did everyone think that not cutting or shaving all of your hair off made you have 'girly' hair? Some people could get away with close cuts and have it suit them, like Dean, but he knew he'd look funny... and his ears tended to get cold. _Besides,_ he thought defensively, _girls certainly seem to like my longer hair. So bite me, Cue ball. _

"It covers a hideous scar I got when I was young," he said shortly. Not true at all, of course, but maybe it would get the guy to shut up about it and stop looking at him like that.

"Can I see it?"

Sam shot him an indignant look edged with disgust. "No." What was with this guy? _Dean, where the hell are you?_

"Why not?" his strangely insistent mountain of a roommate asked menacingly.

"If I showed you, I'd have to kill you." Sam tried to sound believable. Calm. Blunt. He was also counting the remaining moments he had to enjoy being among the living.

"Heh." The Mountain laughed.

This could be either good or bad. "Heh" as in, 'You're funny, kid'. Or "Heh" as in, 'I'm going to paint the wall with your guts.'

There was a knock at the door, a triple rap.

_Oh, thank god._

"Sammy, you in there?"

"It's 'Sam'," Sam called back with irritation. Like he needed to give Mt. Krakatoa over there any more ammunition with a nickname like that. He eyed down his roommate and repeated, with a determined glare, "It _is _Sam."

"Yeah, whatever, man," Dean said through the door. "Come on out, I need to talk to you."

Sam slid off of his bed carefully, watching Bernice like one would a sleeping lion. No sudden movements. Quiet. He edged around the side of the room, flattening against the wall as he got nearest to the other man, and then slipped out the door like greased lightning. As it shut, he leaned upon it, catching his breath and waiting for his jangling nerves to settle.

"What's up, Sammy?" Dean asked, taking stock of him.

"Stop calling me Sammy. It's _Sam_." He pushed off from the door and set off down the hall. Dean needed to quit while they were ahead. The nickname was starting to bug him - other people would wonder about it if they heard it, just like his roommate. And he already got shit for his long hair, he really didn't need to add the list.

"Why?" Dean asked, not one to honor a request unless he deemed it valid.

"I don't like it," he said shortly. Dean called _him_ stubborn, but so was he. Stubborn and relentless.

"I could always switch back to 'Samantha'," Dean suggested with a lift of his eyebrows. "Since you liked that so much."

Sam glared at his brother, knowing that he could and would call him that in front of other people, just for a laugh. "Don't you fucking dare." If looks could kill, Dean would be one seriously dead smart-ass right now.

Dean's mouth quirked up at the corner in an amused smirk, and Sam was taken with the urge to punch him.

Dean's smile widened as he seethed, and his older brother threw an arm around his shoulders as they walked. "Relax, Sammy," he mock soothed. "I probably won't."

Sam shook his head and wondered what he'd done to deserve a brother like Dean. He shrugged off Dean's arm, and said, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Well, I wanted to see how your roommate was working out, for one."

"I'm not sure."

"You find out what he's in for?"

"No one's here for violent aggression and murder, right?" Sam asked, hoping the answer was 'no'.

"Murder? No. Aggression, maybe, but they medicate the fuck out of you."

"Great," Sam muttered. So maybe his roommate couldn't kill him, but only because some medication or other was acting like an electric fence.

"You worried or something?" Dean asked, his eyes studying Sam's face.

"No," he lied. "It's fine." He didn't see any good coming from a clash between his brother and a freaking volcano. He'd deal with this on his own. After all, he'd been dealing with things on his own for a long time now. He was no longer an innocent, sheltered kid, doted on by his entire family. Not by a long shot. Besides, he could always ask Bobby about the possibility of a room change if things got worse. "How's yours?"

"Meh," Dean said.

"Meh?"

"I'll tell you later," Dean said by way of dismissal. "Listen, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about... there are some guys I know around here, real winners, I tell ya. Take what they say with a grain of salt."

Sam felt his eyebrow rise. "And these are friends of yours?"

"Sort of. We play cards. Anyway, just in case we run into them-"

Dean broke off as they neared the cafeteria, nodding to someone Sam had never seen before. He noticed Dean's body language change as they stepped inside the crowded dining area; he was suddenly on guard, tight, eyes flicking around the room as if placing every face within the four walls.

"Winchesterrrr," a voice cat-called.

"Good work on Gordon, man," another called out aggressively. "Way to fuck someone up, you psycho."

"It wasn't me," Dean called back without looking. "I _finish _what I start."

They made it another dozen steps closer to the food line, when a hostile-looking man stepped in front of them. "I say you're a liar, Winchester. "

Dean groaned internally, recognizing one of Gordon's fanclub. Friend. Something. He didn't really care, except this guy was definitely itching to make a scene and he'd been trying to lay low. He certainly never wanted Sam to see him lose it again, like he had with Gordon. It had changed the way his little brother looked at him, the memory of it flickering in his eyes from time to time. Looking at him like he was dangerous. Grey eyes were on him now, wary, wondering what he was going to do.

"Say whatever you like, Wilcox," Dean said with a tilt of his head and an arrogant tone. "But _don't _stand between a man and his breakfast."

The man's coffee colored skin flushed with rage. His distinguishing feature was a long black _Fu Manchu_ mustache, which was like an upside-down horseshoe of hair that tapered at the ends and fell past his chin. He also had a fro. Dean would have been inclined to like him if the guy hadn't been such a dick.

"You won't be able to _**eat **_breakfast when I'm through with you." The man started forward, hands at the ready. Circling.

"That so?" Dean said in a bored tone, turning his back on him. He counted out a few seconds mentally, then shot his left arm up over his shoulder in back-handed fist, clipping the taller man in the face. _Idiot._

"My toof!" Wilcox cried out. Dean tossed a glance over his shoulder to see the man's mouth dripping blood behind the protective cup of his hand. "You moferfucker!"

"You get what you pay for," Dean said, wondering if the guy was going to be stupid enough to rush him again.

"Dean!" A harsh whisper and a hand on his arm brought his attention back to Sam. The look he was on the receiving end of made him feel guilty. "What?" he said, shrugging off his brother's arm. "He started it."

"I know," Sam said, eyes darting between him and the other guy. "But maybe you should chill."

Dean rolled his eyes. If he turned over a pansy new leaf of non-resistance to tools like this, the bastards would be a lot more cocky with him. Sam didn't understand how this worked, obviously. Dean was preventing future fights by taking stands early on. Gordon was something of a special case. He'd always known that if they'd crossed fists, one of them wouldn't be getting back up. So for him, Dean had avoided outright confrontation.

"You should listen to your new friend," Wilcox said, wiping at the blood on his chin with the back of his hand. His brown eyes were like flint. "Unless you want him involved in your little disagreements."

"Do I look like a fucking accessory to you?" Sam said with irritation, making the guy acknowledge his presence instead of talking around him. The guy had some fucking nerve threatening Dean by threatening _him_, as if he was some defenseless chick hanging off his arm like brainless eye candy. Another snap judgment people were prone to make is that he couldn't take care of himself. Just now it was pissing him off beyond belief.

"Oh," Wilcox said with a smile. "Whaddaya know? It talks."

"Sam, cool it," Dean said under his breath, knowing he was fast losing his temper.

Two more guys materialized at the mustached man's side. It was starting to size up into a proper fight.

"But I think the question we'd like to be asking," the tall man with the fro said, "is can it _fight_?"

"Wanna find out?" Sam said with a sharp smile.

"Sam!" Dean barked out in a low voice, trying to order him to stop. It didn't seem to be working. "Dammit."

Sam ignored him. He was sick of people thinking they could push him around. Still, he waited for one of them to make the first move. Dean seemed to think that sort of thing was important in this place, and maybe it was.

It didn't take long before one of the backups ran at him, taking a swing. Sam ducked the punch and did a leg sweep, knocking the guy off his feet. He barely had time to straighten and someone else's fist caught him in the jaw. He saw stars for a minute and was grabbed from behind and punched in the stomach. Bile rose in the back of his throat.

He thought he could hear Dean involved in his own skirmish, but trying to look was a distraction he couldn't afford.

Sam head-butted the guy behind him, hearing a crack, then turned, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and doing a hip throw that slammed the man's back to the floor. He staggered back a bit, his head spinning. _The problem with head-butts_, he thought. _They bite back._

Sam swore more people had joined the fray. He had his eyes on at least 3 to 4 guys, and he could hear Dean working on his own set. He glanced over quickly and confirmed this, watching Dean land a clean punch to some guy's face that actually made him spin a rotation as he fell.

"Hey, Campbell," Wilcox said as he slammed his fist into Sam's left eye.

_Shit. Stupid mistake. _Sam hit the ground as he was knocked into from behind. He barely had time to try and protect his ribs before someone began viciously kicking his midsection. Or maybe it was multiple someones...

He tried to figure out their exact location from the angle of the blows, so he could make his next move. He was pretty sure it was two in the front, and one bitch behind him, making his kidneys fear for their imminent safety._ Best course would be to..._

All of a sudden, he was being dragged up by the collar of his shirt by someone so strong, they were doing it one-handed. With _ease_.

_Oh, fuck._His eyes opened reluctantly, no longer needing protected as the blows had temporarily ceased. His goddamn feet were hardly touching the ground and he could see there was a momentary pause in the fight itself, many of the participants staring his way. Dean was one of them, frozen in action, fist caulked back to hit a guy he had by the collar, green eyes wide.

"Don't fight," a voice rumbled from behind him, like the grating of tectonic plates.

Sam swallowed hard, recognizing the voice. "H-Hey, Bernice," he managed to get out. He was still unsure if he was out of the frying pan or if he'd officially fallen into the fire. The urge to throw up was either fear or the sudden loss of adrenaline.

"You're not made for fighting," he said, specifically to Sam.

Riiiiiight. Creepy. "You mind putting me down?" he tried to ask nicely.

"Yeah," Bernice said, and Sam was suddenly really hoping that this was not a sign of his roommate taking a liking to him in a weird way. "Wait for it," the huge man added.

_Wait for what?_

At that moment, a bunch of orderlies ran into the crowded cafeteria and everyone scattered. It was bedlam, with shouting, stampeding and general chaos. Sam was sort of above it all, no one wanting to get too close to him or the mountain that held him aloft by the scruff of his neck.

Mt. Krakatoa soon began to shuffle through the mass of people, taking him to the exit, and who knew where after that. Sam tried not to let himself freak out, but he wanted off of this ride. NOW.

One of the orderlies barred the way. "Where are you going, Bernice?" he said authoritatively. He looked a little twitchy, though, like he was scared he might be poking a sleeping lion with a pointy stick. Which he may well have been.

"Infirmary," Krakatoa spoke, and the orderly gave way like a poor sap facing a lava flow.

Out in the hall, Sam said, "You wanna put me down now?"

"No."

_Oh, man. _He was just like being in the room with him earlier, only _freakier._

Sam endured his escort to the infirmary, grateful as hell that that was where he'd actually ended up. "Uh, about earlier," he tried again as he was set down. "For helping me out with those guys... Um, thanks."

"Don't thank me," Bernice said, and pushed him through the door.

_Right..._ Sam thought sarcastically as he stumbled, _because that would be a 'strange' thing to do. _

_Not like staring at your new roommate as if you were trying to decide whether to roast him or grill him is weird in the slightest. _He wondered if the bar for _strange _in this place was set universally or individually.

He sighed. He wasn't really sure why he'd been taken to the infirmary. It wasn't like he'd suffered anything a couple of Tylenol wouldn't fix. That's mostly all they'd do for him anyway; he'd been roughed up before.

He looked around, noting a row of railed beds on either side of the room. About 12 altogether. Some had racks with curtains strung across them, for privacy he guessed. He walked upon the blue linoleum floor, edging further into the room. It had a disturbing mix of astringent, antiseptic odor and musty light. "Hello?" he called, just to make sure if he was alone in here or not. It didn't seem like any of the beds were occupied, but there were a few doors on the back end of the room and someone could easily be in there.

This place was kind of creepy for being a hospital.

On the left was a desk that resembled a laboratory work area. It had a computer on it. Curiosity called, and he took a closer look. It was probably a bad idea to touch it, but he was already shaking the mouse and considering trying to crack the password to the _medstaff_ account he found at the login screen.

A noise and a flow of cool air made him look up. He didn't see anything, but it had definitely gotten chilly in here. He stood, eyes swiveling, trying to place the noise as he walked slowly back down the room. The hair on the back of his neck was raising.

"Winchester," a coldly pleasant voice said from behind him.

He turned and there was a man standing there, a doctor, judging by the white coat. He had an expansive beard and his name tag said Dr. Walter. "Who, me?"

The man nodded with a smile. His eyes glittered oddly.

Sam's brows drew together. "My name's Campbell."

"Of course it is," the doctor said. "And yet, you are a Winchester."

Sam took a subtle step back as the man approached. His right hand was hidden in the pocket of his white coat. "I met your father once," he said conversationally. "Nice man," he nodded to himself, the smile shifting upon his bearded face like an unformed thing, "but severely delusional. A very interesting case."

"Are you implying he was a patient of yours?" Sam asked. _This guy can't be more than 35, tops. _Could one really get through school that fast, and be seeing patients? His dad had been admitted to a mental hospital nearly 10 years ago.

"Oh, yes," the man's modulated voice said softly. "He was briefly in my care. You could say, he was the one that got away."

The hidden right hand was really bugging Sam, and it seemed that there was something in that pocket that the doctor's hand was touching. For a moment, vertigo seemed to take hold, the world swirling around that one detail - that right coat pocket.

"But now both of you boys are under one roof, partially under my care. Like a family reunion. Quite touching. Quite touching indeed. Like father, like sons."

"Uh, I'm gonna go," Sam said, walking backwards steadily. "Stuff to do and all."

"Really, Samuel?" the doctor flashed him a set of pearly whites. "But surely you came here for something? Why not let me treat your wounds?"

"I'm good." Back step, back step. How far was the damn door, anyhow?

"You're feeling dizzy, I can tell."

He flinched. "I'll live." He didn't want this doctor anywhere near him.

"I can give you something for the pain."

_Back step, back step, back step._He was moving faster now, and so was Dr. Walter.

And the right hand was emerging, a small, clear syringe in its fingers. "You shouldn't fight, Samuel," the doctor was saying as he took off the transparent blue cap that covered the needle. "But let me help. I can make you feel right again."

Sam's back ran up against the door, and for one panicked second, it wouldn't open. It slid beneath his damp fingers, refusing him an exit.

Light glinted off of the needle as the plunger was depressed and droplets of liquid shot up from the tip in a thin, short stream.

Sam's stomach clenched, cramping with fear, and the pain nearly made him double over. He couldn't look away from that needle as it drifted closer. Couldn't move. _Trapped. _He felt cold.

"Delightful," the doctor said. "A shame the one with the sunny disposition has arrived."

"Sam?" Dean called then, knocking at the door with the flat of his hand. "You in there?"

The doorknob twisted beneath Sam's nerveless fingers and the door was opening behind him. He pushed past Dean and ran.

"Sammy?" Dean called after his brother, a frown marring his face. He took a quick peek inside the infirmary and saw nothing. No one. He closed the door, shaking his head and took off after him.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Chapter title from **Infected Mushroom - "Semi Nice"**. After I wrote this chapter, this song title caught my eye and struck me as funny, a nice tie-in to the OC I made. (Both to his name and his questionable intentions/motivations.)

The song is an instrumental, so I'd say to just listen to it as background music. A lot of the songs are pretty long and are great when just on while you do other stuff. Like reading! :)


	12. Vicious Delicious

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 11: Vicious Delicious<span>

Dean didn't get far in his pursuit of his brother before being detained. A pair of orderlies, Chuck and Miles met him in the hall, blocking his path. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the amount of space they took up was impressive. They were some of the heavyweights in this asylum, and Dean did not care for them one bit.

"Come with us, Winchester," Miles said, his huge biceps flexing under his short-sleeved white staff uniform. "Your time is up."

"Time for what?" Dean asked, stalling. Miles was an islander with deep brown skin and hair that was curly, nearly black and pulled back into a loose ponytail. His eyes were arctic blue and he had a rough touch with the patients, one of which had gained a broken arm. He'd had at least two warnings regarding this sort of thing, and yet no one was bothering to fire him.

Chuck, a guy with shortish dirty blond hair who kind of resembled an older Mark Hamill (on steroids) said, "Your time as a free man. It's off to solitary for you."

Dean backed up a step, holding his hands up in appeal. "Oh, come on. What for?" He could duck back down the hall where he came from, but there wasn't much in that direction except for the infirmary. Besides, Sam had gone_ this_way and he intended to follow. His brother had looked seriously freaked out.

Miles smiled, showing white teeth. "What **for**?" He laughed. "Where do I _start_?"

Chuck threw Miles an exasperated look. "You could start with what he did _today_."

"Yes, please enlighten us," Dean said drolly. "But hurry it up, would ya? Looking at your faces is enough to gag a maggot."

Miles leveled him with a look that said he'd love to earn another reprimand from his employers by breaking something on Dean. Maybe multiple somethings. "The cafeteria fight."

"Oh, come on," Dean said with irritation. "Solitary for _that_? I didn't even start it."

"Look, Chuck, isn't he cute?" Miles said condescendingly, nodding at his coworker, "trying to reason with us like this." He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at Dean. "He doesn't seem to realize there is nothing that can come out of that smart-ass mouth of his that anyone will give a flying fuck about."

Dean let out an over-dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. "If I come willingly, could you at least do me the favor of not talking?" He held his hands out like he was waiting for handcuffs. "Hell, I'll lock myself up for that."

"I could always knock your head in hard enough you wouldn't even hear us," Miles offered.

"Miles," Chuck said with annoyance. "Stop talking to him, already. You know there's no end to the shit coming out of his mouth. Let's just grab him and be done with it so I can take my smoke break."

Dean whistled. "So now I see who's wearing the pants in the relationship. Never took you for being pussy-whipped, Miles."

Miles growled and lunged at him. It was the perfect opening. Dean mentally thanked Chuck for being himself - impatient and lazy - and Miles for having a hair-trigger temper. He used the islander's momentum against him, pulling on the extended arm closest to him as he moved forward as well, sending the man off-balance. Someone with less experience might have found themselves acquainting their face with the floor, but Dean knew Miles would keep his feet. This was just a means of breaking the blockade. He made a break for it.

With luck, and no impediments, he'd be able to outrun them. Maybe. Problem was, no matter how he ran, the time would come when someone found him. Orderlies were fucking irritating like that. It was like the Borg. One mind and all. Where one orderly failed to carry out a task, all the others were updated and the whole facility became a very tight place to maneuver in.

FYI - running from orderlies was a bad thing. It was a sign of misconduct that was usually dealt with in an unpleasant fashion. He tried to avoid it.

As he was careening through the halls, he spied Ed's familiar form and bushy hair.

"Hey, Ed," he greeted, skidding to a stop.

Ed looked edgy. "Hi, Dean."

"What's up?" he asked, wondering why Ed was acting weird. He didn't really have time for this, but he needed to find Sam and Ed seemed prone to keeping track of people, especially new ones.

"I shouldn't be talking to you," the teenager said, turning his shoulder and trying to shuffle away down the hall in a hunkered slouch.

"Hey-" Dean said sharply, the behavior annoying him. Ed flinched and looked back at him reluctantly. "Sorry," Dean apologized immediately, not meaning to speak so roughly; Ed didn't respond too well to that - he clammed up. "Why can't you talk to me?"

Ed pushed his glasses up his nose. "I didn't say that I _couldn't_," he corrected snobbishly. "I said that I _**shouldn't**_."

Impatience snapped through Dean like a whip. _Argh! WhatEVER! Just get to the fucking point already. _"And why is that, Ed?" he said through a teeth-clenching smile.

"Because you're in trouble _again_, and **I **don't want to be in trouble." He sniffed condescendingly. "Why do you always get into trouble, Dean? I should be ashamed to associate with you."

Dean bit back his response to that. "Just one thing and I'll leave you alone, okay?"

Ed frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I didn't _say_ you had to leave me alone. Are you feeling antisocial, Dean?"

...aaaand Dean's last nerve popped like a chestnut over hot coals. "Have you seen Sam Campbell?" he barked out, feeling like he was going to throttle the irritating boy.

Ed flinched theatrically, arms coming up to his chest like a T-rex. "W-why? Are you going to yell at him too?"

"No," he growled. "Him, I want to talk to. Now answer the goddamn question, I don't have much time."

"I think he's back in his room, but-"

"Thanks," Dean said, taking off at a run again. Milo and Otis were not going to be kept at bay forever. He wanted to get at least a few minutes to see if Sam was okay, see what had him spooked, and maybe even let him know about his impending leave of absence. Well, if there was time before they dragged him off.

He beelined to Sam's room and tried the door. Locked. "Sam? You in there?" he called and rapped on the door.

After a moment, there was a click and the door swung open. _Weird. _"Sam?" he called again, starting to become suspicious. Sam would always answer him, if he could. Was he even in here at all? He pushed the door open a bit more, ready to jump back as he inched forward and peered inside.

Suddenly, a ridiculously strong arm hooked around his torso and arms from behind, squeezing him like a human bull clamp. "Gotcha," Miles said, slapping a cloth over his nose and mouth as he held Dean still.

Dean struggled, cursing his luck. It smelled like chloroform. A wretched smell. They used it here on difficult patients to minimize injury to the restraining staff. The stuff always made him feel sick.

His vision began to swim and he saw Wilcox out of the corner of his eye, looking smug as hell. The mustached man regarded him with a glib smile and said, "A dog will always return to its vomit."

Dean growled in the back of his throat and struggled violently. _What the hell kind of shit is this? _The guy who started the fight was roaming free, while _his_ ass was getting tossed in a hell box? And where the hell was Sam at?

The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the apologetic face of his once-favorite orderly Paulo who walked out from the room, being the one who had been manning the door. _Son of a bitc-! _he shouted mentally as he blacked out.

* * *

><p>When Dean came to, he was lying on his side on a cold, damp concrete floor.<p>

"I see they gave me the best room this time," he croaked. Oh, he felt like hell. He needed some water.

He rolled into a sitting position, made more challenging by the straight-jacket he'd apparently been laced into. God-damned things were a pain in the ass. Someone was less than pleased with him, that much was apparent; They could have at least laid him out on the bed.

"Dillan?" he called out in a raspy voice. "Pablo?" His head was spinning a bit. "Hey, who the fuck is down here?" Those two were the most likely candidates.

"Shut your hole, Winchester," a voice called back. It was Dillan.

"Unfortunately for you, it's one of the only things that was left flapping free."

A deep sigh heralded the orderly's approach. The Irishman looked at him and shook his head. "Really, Dean, what the hell did you do now?"

Dean shrugged.

Dillan leaned against the barred door and gave him a bland stare. "What's sad is I think this is the longest you've gone without landing yourself in trouble."

"Miss me?"

"Like a hole in the head."

"Anyone else down here?" Dean asked, almost hopeful that Sam might be here as well, and within vocal range; though, he didn't exactly want his brother to experience this.

"Well, there should be," Dillan said, a frown forming on his face. "It takes more than two fists to have a brawl. But you're the only one that's come in."

"Makes a guy feel special," Dean said sarcastically as he struggled to his feet. He wobbled a bit, still rocking that chloroform in his system. He hoped he didn't fall and crack his head open on anything, like the sink or the john. "You know how long they're gonna keep me in this thing? Kinda hard to get a drink or take a piss like this." Not to mention the joy of severely stiff arms which he could be looking forward to.

"What," the Irishman said consideringly. "I think it's a good look for you. Could be improved with a gag, though."

"You're one hilarious asshole, Dillan. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Sure. Every day - last time you were down here." The orderly yawned and nodded towards Dean's new, shiny white jacket. "I think it's only till the doc gets here, but don't quote me on that."

Dean sighed heavily and went to sit on the bed. "Can you at least help me get some water?"

"As long as you're aware that I will knock your ass out if you try anything." Dillan brandished the black kubotan on his key ring. That stick could be used to disastrous effect on someone's pressure points if the wielder knew what they were doing. Dillan did. He'd sort of learned that by experience.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said.

* * *

><p>Time passes slowly in solitary.<p>

Slow, like a lethargic snail.

A _dead_, lethargic snail.

Dean rolled on his side, trying to shift into a position that, even with his jacketed arms, would be comfortable enough to let him sleep a bit longer. He hated being bored, so he'd rather be unconscious. He also disliked having his arms bound.

It had been hours and hours, he was sure, and still, no one had come to see him. Dillan had been decent enough to undo his coat (under pain of death, if he tried anything) so he could use the toilet, and then trussed him back up again. He was also pretty hungry.

He sighed, staring at the dark, featureless concrete wall he was facing into, a grim expression on his face. How long were they planning to keep him here? So far, no one had said anything to him about Gordon, so he was supposedly only being kept like this over the cafeteria thing. But it was strange that no one else was. Not to mention, it was total overkill.

He heard keys at the door of his cell and glanced over his shoulder apathetically. The smile that greeted him made him bolt upright - pearly whites framed by a bushy beard.

"Why are you here?" Dean snapped, his body going rigid as Dr. Walter let himself into the cell. This guy was always bad news. "Dr. Singer is my doctor," he said, brandishing the information like a shield. Unease trickled through him, though he didn't show it. "Where's he at?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean," the man said pleasantly. "Why must you always be so confrontational?"

Dean bit back several responses he might have made to that.

"I've just come to have a little chat."

"A chat," Dean repeated, thinking that if that was all, hell must have frozen over.

"Yes," the doctor confirmed, sitting on the edge of the bed, uninvited. That smile widened a few more notches and his eyes glittered. "Just a little chat about your brother, Sam."

"What about him?" Dean growled, knowing he wasn't going to like this. He thought Bobby had said not everyone knew about that, and yet so many people _did_ seem to know.

"We'll get to that," Dr. Walter said. "But first things first." He reached into his pocket and produced several syringes.

Dean's eyes widened and he backed up quickly, pressing his back against the wall. "_No_." _No, not this. Not again. No._

"No?" the doctor repeated quizzically. "But you don't have a choice, Dean. That's what it means to stay here. You are entrusting your well-being and your care to others. To professionals."

Dean felt a cold sweat break out upon his forehead and his heart was hammering in his chest. "I don't need anything you're pushing."

Dr. Walter smiled engagingly. "You've had it all before. It's nothing new. Why don't you just cooperate so we can move on to more pleasant things?"

"Screw you."

"I met Sam today," the doctor informed him casually. "I can really see the familial resemblance... like how you are both utterly terrified of me." His smile warmed. "But where you become more... 'charming' than normal, Sam folds in an utter panic."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Stay the hell away from him."

"It was quite fascinating to watch. I look forward to working with him in the future." Walter's eyes were about as human as a crocodile's and his smile was just as wide and dangerous. "Did you know, he appears to have a fear of needles?"

Dean fought to get his arms free of the straight-jacket, his eyes glittering with hate.

"Now, Dean. It's time you played nice. You can either take your medication like a big boy or I can call your brother in to the infirmary for an evaluation. It's your choice, but I'd rather we focus on you at this time."

"Bastard," Dean said through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, is that a 'yes' or a 'no'?"

"It's a big, fat GO TO HELL," Dean said.

"I see. Well then..."

In a flash, Dr. Walter grabbed Dean by the jacket, flipping him on his stomach and onto his bound arms. A firm hand held his head to the mattress sideways, and a knee in his back kept him down. He was strong for a doctor, not to mention unorthodox and probably a classic case for malpractice.

Dean's eye rolled as he spotted one of the syringes being readied in the doctor's free hand and he tried to throw him off.

"I would highly recommend you hold still, now," Dr. Walter cautioned, knee grinding painfully into his spine. "I would hate to have the needle snap off in your neck. It is a very tricky site for intravascular administration, but the only one available with your arms bound up as they are."

Dean suffered the feel of the needle sliding into his vein with eyes clenched shut, his breathing shallow. He could almost feel the poison flooding into him, one excruciating milliliter at a time.

The needle burned as it slid back out and soon, another took its place. And another. Three, all told, puncturing him like prehistoric mosquitoes, gentle hands like wings brushing his skin, holding them steady.

Nausea burbled in him as his blood spread the drugs around with every rapid heartbeat, smearing them through his system. He breathed heavily against the mattress, trying to get a handle on it.

"I hope you know," Walter said as he collected the used syringes and put them into his pocket, "you're one of my favorite patients, Dean."

"Bite me," he ground out.

"But," the doctor continued. "I do have high hopes for Samuel. Such a broken boy, in need of repair."

"No," Dean said, voice unsteady. "Leave-" God, his head felt like a fucking windmill. "Leave him alone!"

Dr. Walter leaned down to speak in his ear. "I should get started _right _away."

"No!" he yelled.

His shoulder was patted in a patronizing fashion.

"NO, goddamn you!"

* * *

><p>Dillan sighed and turned a page of his magazine. Dean sure was losing his shit. Now he was shouting like a freaking banshee.<p>

What could he possibly be getting worked up over in here?

He shook his head, hoping someone decided to get Winchester out of his hair soon.

* * *

><p>Sam was kept cooped up in his old room, unable to leave, for nearly 2 days. He was locked in. The orderly who put him there informed him that it would be a lot more pleasant than solitary, and that if he didn't like it, he should try not getting into trouble next time.<p>

Bobby visited him once, during the first day and he looked anything but happy.

Sam tried to ask him about Dean, but all he could get out of the psychiatrist was that he might not see him for a while. It wasn't a good enough answer and he'd yelled that at Bobby, and Bobby had yelled right back that information was a privilege, not a right. He'd said that their sense of entitlement and lack of respect for the rules undid any good he could do for the two of them. He seemed really frustrated and disappointed in them.

'I'll talk to you after you've had time to think about what you've done,' he'd said.

On the morning of the third day, there was a knock at the door. Sam consulted the clock and saw it was time they'd be bringing something to eat for breakfast. "Come in," he said needlessly. They were the ones with the keys, after all. But it let him talk to someone at least.

Marilene bustled in with a tray. "Good morning, Sunshine. How are we today?"

"Okay," he said.

"I heard a little something," she hummed under her breath as she tidied the room.

"What's that?"

"You ought to be getting company soon, but you didn't hear that from me." She came over and fluffed his pillows with a smile tugging at her lips. "A little birdy told me it might be your old, devilish roommate. He should be getting out of solitary today - he always was a mess after that - and your room is slated to receive double meals starting this afternoon. "

_Solitary?_

Sam grabbed her wrist, and she seemed surprised. "Why was he in solitary?" He hadn't known Dean was being punished - he'd thought they were merely being kept in separate rooms as a sort of slap on the wrist. So that orderly that mentioned solitary, he'd said it because he knew Dean was there and Sam was getting off with nothing. "The fight was practically all my fault!"

"Sammy," she said quietly, "let go of my arm, honey."

He did so, feeling confused being talked to like he was 5 and seeing the blonde nurse step back out of range almost pointedly. She rubbed at her wrist like it was hurt. _Had_ he hurt her? Surely he hadn't gripped her wrist _that_ hard. But he felt compelled to apologize. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."

"It's ok," she said, her voice sort of clipped, though she put on a faint smile. It seemed strained. "I'll be back in 30 minutes to collect your tray."

* * *

><p>It was well past mid-morning when Dean was brought into the room. His muscled body was limp and unmoving in the arms of an insanely strong looking orderly who had piercing, pale eyes and curly dark hair pulled into a low ponytail.<p>

The orderly dumped him on the other bed like a sack of potatoes.

"Enjoy," he said in his deep voice, closing and locking the door behind him.

Sam scrambled to his brother's side. For a minute, he worried that Dean was unconscious or worse. "Dean, _Dean_," he said, shaking him slightly.

"Quiet," Dean whispered hoarsely, not opening his eyes. Sam noticed he had a small cloud of red pinpricks on the side of his neck.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, lowering his voice.

"Sure," was the unconvincing answer. After a few moments of shallow breathing, he asked, "They medicate you?"

"No."

"Good," Dean said, then passed out.

* * *

><p>Sam was occupying himself with a newspaper he'd begged off of a reluctant Bobby later that afternoon when a soft groan caught his attention. He glanced over at his brother's bed and saw signs of life.<p>

Dean struggled to sit up, looking like he felt ill, and said in a scratchy voice, "What time is it? It's dark outside."

"About 10 p.m." Sam replied. "You hungry? I saved you something off of the dinner and lunch trays."

Dean's eyes were a little bloodshot as they looked his way, making the green stand out so much it almost looked like his eyes were glowing. There was also a shadow of stubble upon his normally clean-shaven face. "What've you got?"

"Crackers from the soup at dinner, and a fruit cup from lunch." He noticed Dean wince when he said 'fruit cup' but he wasn't sure why. It was about all he could save that wouldn't have gone bad without refrigeration. Staff hadn't left meal trays for Dean while he'd been out. They probably figured they'd wait until he woke instead of wasting food on him.

"Crackers, I guess. Fruit cups remind me of being in that damn infirmary."

_Ah. _Sam got up to get the crackers and handed them over along with a water bottle that had come with one of the meals.

"Thanks, man," Dean said, taking them both in a shaky grip.

"So..." Sam trailed, taking up residence on the edge of Dean's bed, "what was solitary like?"

Dean opened the water bottle and took a drink before answering. "Sammy," he said, "your tact knows no bounds." He shook his head. "It's a hell hole."

"But what is it _like_?" Sam persisted, an intense look accompanying the frown on his face. "What _was _it like?"

Dean looked at his younger brother and thought that even if he could remember much of anything, he probably wouldn't tell him. It was mostly a blur, and anyway, he knew Sam thought it was his fault he was in there in the first place, his fault for really starting the fight. "It's about as fun as you would expect. Don't worry about it."

He bit into a cracker and wondered vaguely if he'd be able to keep it down. He wasn't sure when the last time he'd eaten was, but he felt weak like it had been a while. He decided to change the subject. "So, what's been happening while I've been gone?"

"Not a whole lot. This," Sam gestured to the room, "is about it."

Dean slowly chewed the bit of cracker, looking around the boring, sterile whiteness of the room. "Scintillating," he said blandly.

"Excuse me?" Sam laughed a little with surprise.

"What?" Dean looked at him. "I didn't go to college, so I'm not allowed to know stuff?" Challenge shaded his eyes.

Sam knew that look. That mildly defensive, warning look. "No, that's not..." he said, shaking his head ruefully. He was trying to keep a straight face and tread lightly, really he was. "It's just - well, where did you even learn a word like that? You don't strike me as a reader, Dean."

"Crossword puzzles," Dean responded with an affirming nod and raised brows, green eyes daring him to say anything.

Sam held up his hands in defense, another laugh trying to weasel its way out of him. "Okay, I can dig that," he coughed. "Just a way to pass some time."

"Oh, shut up. You obviously haven't been here long enough." He leaned his head back on the pillows, far enough that he could look at the ceiling. "Just _try_ and find something worth reading in that so-called library of theirs."

"I would, but I haven't exactly had the freedom to explore the place."

"Waste of time," Dean assured him.

"Will you take me there sometime?"

"To the library?" Dean gave him a disbelieving look. "What for? Bobby's been spoiling you rotten with finding you decent stuff to read. Unless, of course..." Dean continued, sizing him up with a raised eyebrow, "you've been harboring a habit for tasteless chick romance novels. If so, bro, you'll be in absolute heaven."

"So you've read them?" Sam countered.

"No," Dean denied. "Why would I read trash like that?"

"Then how do you know they're tasteless?"

"What are you, the connoisseur of crap reading? Of course they're awful, they're **all** awful, by the very definition of the category 'romance novel'. But if you feel compelled to catalog the levels and nuances of 'shit', then be my guest."

Sam sat there, giving him a reserved, amused smile and said nothing.

"What?" Dean said with irritation.

"You've totally read them or you wouldn't be so defensive," Sam said smugly.

Dean gave him a stony look, trying to intimidate him into backing down. Sam just looked back, the smugness in his dark grey eyes increasing. Dean gave up, shrugging it off gruffly. "I was bored. Now shut up."

"By the way," Sam said, allowing him to regain some dignity by changing the subject, "Bobby said he'd be by tomorrow so he could give you a piece of his mind."

"Ugh," Dean sighed. "He had to wait till I was awake for that?"

"For some reason he's under the impression that you'll listen better that way."

"Shows what he knows," Dean said, tilting his head from side to side to stretch his neck. He brought his hand up to massage his left shoulder, and then his right. He felt stiff all over. Not to mention the state of his head, or the hunger-nausea, or any number of little things he felt plaguing him at the moment. He also couldn't decide if he felt tired or rested.

"Your back bothering you?" Sam asked, giving him one of those concerned looks that also seemed to radiate, _Are you okay? How are you feeling? _as easily as if he spoke it.

"What _isn't_?" he muttered. Between the meds and the self-hug jacket, not to mention the abysmal room he'd had the luxury of the past few days, he was in rough shape. He probably looked about as good as he felt. No wonder Sam was worried. It was kind of weird though, this was the first time someone was with him after one of these little vacations, especially someone who cared. He usually just suffered through them, recuperated, then put them right out of his mind, but Sam was making him think they might be even worse than he'd thought.

Sam moved further to the side of the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. "Here, sit up. I can work the knots out for you."

"I'm fine," Dean said, continuing to rub at his shoulder. "You don't have to." He had a feeling Sam was feeling obligated. He shouldn't.

Sam gave him an annoyed look. "I know. But I want to do _something_. After all, it's my fault you-"

"Sam," Dean warned, holding up a hand. "Don't you dare spout some crap to me about everything being your fault. Just don't."

"But-"

"Neither of us started it," he said harshly, looking aside. "_They _did. They threw first punches and everything. So just drop it, okay?"

He glanced at Sam covertly, just to see how his order was being taken, and saw that his jaw was starting to set in a stubborn fashion. There was also a trace of that angry pout about his lips.

Dean realized he was staring at them when Sam started speaking, lips forming words, and he found himself nodding in agreement, having absolutely no idea what was being said. "What?"

"I said, move, so I can get at your back. I can't massage it from the front."

_Massage from the front. _Dean's mind supplied some wonderful scenarios to that, none of which he'd be allowing himself to think about. Especially not with Sam right there. He could only hope the torrent of lewd thoughts milling about in his head were confined there and were not evident on his face. He sat up and slid forward, as asked, turning his back to Sam and wondering if a massage was really such a good idea.

Try as he might, he was still not doing a very good job of seeing Sam as merely his little brother. At all. But it was imperative that he do so.

Firm hands slid over his shoulders, thumbs rolling into the tenseness of muscle and Dean felt his belly tighten in response. Sam's hands kneaded his shoulders and back unrelentingly, forcing a sigh from his lips as the pressure and strength of them created a sweet sort of pain that he was just melting into. _God, that feels good. _Tension was slipping from him in waves. When was the last time he'd had a massage? Nothing came to mind.

The only problem with this was that he was that the more relaxed he became, the more aware he was that it was _Sam's _hands smoothing down his arms, over his shoulders and all the way up his spine. Sam's hands that were so gentle on his neck, rubbing light circles, and soothing with the trail of fingertips. Dean's eyes drifted closed as they slid higher, ruffling his hair as they massaged lightly over his skull. He found himself reminded of the way Sam's hands had felt in his hair as he'd kissed him, how erotic that had been, and how perfect, as Sam's mouth had grazed and joined with his.

This was probably a bad idea. His imagination was getting the better of him with fuel like this - the feel of Sam so close to him. Desire was a razor-blade that was sharpening itself with every movement of those hands upon his body.

He could feel pleasure beating through him languidly, pulsing. Hungry but patient, for the moment.

"Better?" Sam murmured.

Dean felt his head spin a little at the voice in his ear, lust rising like the shifting swell of a wave, then easing back again as it danced with reason. "Yeah," he said, knowing his voice sounded too deep.

He laid down on his side, without looking at Sam, keeping his back turned, and tried to soothe the beast in him. It wanted Sam, and Sam was about the last person in the world that it should ever have.

The bed shifted as Sam got up and he heard the light click off. He breathed a sigh of relief, no longer having to worry about the expressions on his face. He could probably sleep this off. No way he was getting caught taking care of himself.

Again the bed shifted under Sam's weight and Dean realized with a start that Sam was going to stay with him.

"Hey," he said in what he hoped was a drowsy sounding voice. "What're you doing?"

"Keeping you company," was the softly husky reply. "You were by yourself for days."

"Mmn." Dean jammed his hands under his pillow and pretended to settle more comfortably onto his side, curling up a bit. He was so wide awake right now, it wasn't even funny. "Bed's kinda small, dontcha think?" He could feel the heat of Sam's side against his back.

"Guess so." He felt Sam shift and then was aware of the full length of his body aligned with his own. Legs brushed his, a thigh resting just below his ass, and Sam's head was tipped against his back. "...but maybe I kinda wanted company, too."

Dean bit his lip; he was fighting so hard with himself right now.

Goddamnit, what was Sam trying to do to him? Why did he have to be so damn innocent? The urge to roll over and pull Sam's mouth to his, to hike a leg up between his and feel the press of his body was brutal.

They weren't kids anymore. Sam couldn't just climb into his bed like he used to, looking for comfort. He couldn't just fall asleep safe and sound. Things were different now. _He_ was different.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You mind if I stay here?"

"Nah." Dean didn't have the heart to tell him. Didn't have the heart to explain just how different and messed up things had actually become. Nostalgia for the old days was sharp and bitter within him. How much easier it had been back then, back when they were kids and their dad _expected_ him to put Sammy firmly at the center of his universe and protect him from everything that went _bump _in the night.

But now they were older, and no one was telling him to do that anymore.

Sam was his whole world, but he was no longer supposed to be.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:**Chapter title from the below song. (Picked pertaining to Doc Walter and also Miles, the two less-than-gentle gents from this installment, but also for mood. The frantic-ness of it makes me think of the medication scene in solitary.)

This is one of those mostly instrumental tracks, but it is so good and has some parts that I just think are amazing with how they build on each other, swell, and create such a frantic pace at times, even as there is an ethereal thread haunting it in the background. There were no 'lyrics' posted online, so I tried my hand at capturing the song. My favorite part aside from the vocal harmonies they do in this, is the instrumental bit near the end - before the part where I note a music 'break'. Ah, so good.

**Infected Mushroom - "Vicious Delicious"**

[music, gritty, beats, building]

_BOOM_  
>(ahhhahhh)<br>ba-_BOOM_  
>(eyYEAahhh)<p>

_BOOM _  
>(aahhAAaahh <em>AAahhh<em>)  
>(<em>OoooOooh<em>)  
>ba-<em>BOOM<em>  
>(eyYEAahhh)<p>

_BOOM _  
>(ahhhahhh)<br>ba-_BOOM _  
>(eyYEAahhh)<p>

_BOOM _  
>(aahhAAaahh <em>AAahhh<em>)  
>ba-<em>BOOM <em>  
>(eyYEAahhh)<p>

[music, voice distortions, beats, building]

_BOOM_  
>ka-<em>BOOM<em>  
>[x4]<p>

[music, swelling, frantic]

[music -break-]

[calmer instrumental]

laaaaEeeeAhhhh

laaaaEeeeAhhhhaaaa

laaaaEeeeAhhhhAaaaaaaah

laaaaEEeeeeeAhhhhhhhh_Aaaaaaaahh_


	13. Special Place

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer*** I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

**A/N:**Sorry for the slow update. Personal stuff. :(

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 12: Special Place <span>

Sam slept fitfully, dreams plaguing him. There was Mom's face, drifting in front of him like a phantom, her eyes flickering between their normal color and a swampy black, set into a morbid skull. The images flickered back and forth, as if contained in flashes of lightning - a dark version and a bright version.

He stumbled, running suddenly, and was slipping on something slick. Catching himself and continuing on, he realized his hands were red. It was blood that clung stickily to his skin and clothes. And there was a lake of it to his right, amongst the reedy grass, surrounded by trees. It was the park, and there was a pale, gorged moon on the horizon. Jess, his girlfriend, was lying in the reeds, half in the lake. He scrambled to her, and her dead eyes seemed to be watching him, telling him something. Her limp hand on the grass was pointing.

He turned to look and saw the hallway in Oak Grove, where he'd seen Dean and Gordon arguing. They were there now, circling each other, a feral light in both of their eyes.

"Dean!" he called out. Maybe he could stop it this time.

But Dean did not seem to hear him. As if in slow motion, he pulled a gun out of his leather jacket. Sam ran, ran hard to get to him, but the scene was not getting any closer.

The blast was deafening, blood spraying Sam's face as he suddenly found himself standing next to them. Gordon was smiling as he fell, a blossom of red fanning out from the left side of his chest where his ruined heart would be. He fell, and the sound was like a lead weight smashing the ground.

Hands gripped Sam's shoulders, and Dean was turning him so that they were face to face. His brother looked emotionless, just a faint, unreal smile upon his lips. It was at odds with the look in his eyes. Flat. Aggrieved. Flat. Anguished. Flat. "Dad always said to get them through the heart," he said with a slight nod of his head.

"Them? Who? Dean, what are you talking about?"

Dean's face swam closer and his hand reached up to caress Sam's cheek, smearing the blood there. "The monsters."

"But Gordon was human," Sam persisted, eyes flicking to the dead man on the floor. He felt sick and couldn't get the smell of blood out of his nose.

"Really?" Dean's brows rose a little and he looked nonplussed as he regarded his kill. "Huh, maybe you're right."

His green eyes swung back to Sam, an intense look in them. His hand trailed down the side of Sam's face, stopping at his lips. After a moment, his fingers continued on, tracing the lower one with slow, avid concentration. He started to lean in, pulled forward as if on strings.

"W-What are you doing?" Sam felt slightly panicked.

"Shhh." Dean's lips brushed his. "Don't let Dad find out."

Then Dean was kissing him, and Sam couldn't make himself put an end to it. Dean's hands were cupping his face, as if he were drinking from a chalice. The devil's cup. Ornate, golden, tempting, and _wrong_.

He knew it was wrong, and yet he couldn't quit the feeling of it - he wanted this. God help him, he wanted this.

Dean pulled back just enough to speak. "You have no idea how badly I want this." His voice was husky. Their foreheads pressed together, and he caught a glimpse of intense green. "You think it's just you, but it isn't. And it's so much worse for me." Dean's mouth bent to his neck, tasting, teasing. Biting.

It ran through Sam in a furious rush of desire. Every touch was spiking it, every lick, every kiss, even the bites that grew increasingly harder. Even the sharp pain of one that felt like needle pricks in his skin. He clapped his hand to his neck and his fingers came away with tiny trails of blood.

Dean was watching him like a cat, expression closed. "Sometimes, when they stick you, it makes you forget."

Sam's eyes flew open and his breathing was harsh in the silence of the darkened room he shared with Dean. Conflicted emotions burbled in him - confusion, fear, lust. He felt as if an oppressive cloud had descended upon him, trying to choke him in its blackness.

These... waking dreams, as he'd started to call them, they were getting more intense. He didn't have them all that often, but he'd experienced them off and on since he was a kid. They were almost hyper real, psychedelic, and... on occasion... they seemed to hold a grain of truth. He'd had several since coming to this place.

He wanted no parts of it. They were disorienting and disturbing.

"Sammy?" Dean's sleep-filled voice murmured.

Sam's eyes flicked towards him, and his face was as close as it had been in the dream. Close enough to kiss. And that wasn't all. Dean's head was resting on the pillow above Sam's shoulder, but his body was sprawled out over Sam's, one of his brother's legs twined around one of his.

Sam's face flushed hot with embarrassment. It was still fresh in his mind, the touch of Dean's mouth against his, and the desire for that to recur in the waking world speared through him. He fought against it as hard as he could.

"Sam?" Dean sounded marginally awake now, his head lifting from Sam's shoulder.

"I'm fine," he breathed out as Dean's body shifted against his. Pleasure fluttered in his belly, persisting even through his denial. It stirred currents in his blood, messing with his head, shortening his breath. He could make out his brother's face hovering near his, concerned, and he damned himself for entertaining the thought of being kissed for even a second. He was willing it to happen almost as fervently as he was willing it _not _to happen.

"You sure?" Dean sounded like he didn't believe him. "You sound kind of strange."

_Panic._

"Well, you're kind of laying all over me," Sam said pointedly, trying to put the pressure on Dean instead of himself. "So it's a little awkward, here."

"You're the one who climbed into my bed." Dean wasn't taking the bait. "You know I'm a messy sleeper." He shifted again, like he was starting to get up, and his hip pressed against Sam's growing arousal.

Sam stifled the noise that fled his mouth. _Crap._

"Dreaming about something good?" Dean tried to joke, but Sam felt the tension in his body and wasn't fooled. This was officially a FUBAR situation. Dean could never know the thoughts he'd been having. "And here I thought you were having a nightmare with all that heavy breathing," his brother added probingly.

Sam's face flushed with embarrassment and he was glad the room was dark enough to keep that a secret.

"I was dreaming about Jess," he said stiffly. Mentioning the actual nightmare would probably be more trouble than it was worth, so he kept that to himself. Again, he apologized to his girlfriend's spirit, wherever it was, feeling guilty as hell that she'd never been capable of making him feel this way. Using her as a scapegoat now was low, he knew that.

"Well, she must've been built like a brick house if getting tangled up with me made you dream about being with _her_."

"Shut up," Sam snapped bristling at the insult to his deceased, would-be fiancée. But that wasn't all. There was also the implication that lay beneath the words, that he couldn't possibly have made that sort of mistake, even in sleep. That he _knew_. And of course he knew, that was the problem. He knew _exactly _who was making his heart race against his will. "You never even met her," he said tersely. "She was gorgeous." Guilt was making him extra defensive. Poor Jess had died because of him, and he could hardly remember now what he'd liked so much about her; his head was too filled with Dean.

"That so?" Dean said somewhat rudely. "Too bad you'll never be seeing her again."

"Asshole!" Sam shoved at him, horrified. He couldn't believe the nerve of his brother, saying something like that. "She's _dead_. Where do you get off talking like that?"

"Yeah, that's me, Sammy." Dean's voice was flippant and dark. "Nothing but a low class asshole." He grabbed Sam's arms, pinning them to the bed next to his head, body stretching out over his to do it. Their gazes clashed. "Nothing but a jealous son of a bitch, thinking about how you got to go off to college, have a _life_, while I was stuck with Dad. When he was around, that is."

Sam was finding it difficult to focus. His body was shaking against Dean's, becoming overwhelmed by their proximity and the desire it fostered. And yet their conversation was making him angry and confused. "But you chose-"

"To stay with him? Yeah." Secretive, green eyes tilted at him, their color muted in the shadows. "But I always wondered what your life would have been like. How much easier it would have been than being dropped by mom, and later falling in _here_."

"Why _are_ you here, Dean?"

Dean lowered his mouth to Sam's ear. "Obviously because I'm insane," he said, brushing the lobe of it with his lips.

Sam shuddered and his eyes fluttered shut. "Stop it, Dean, you're not crazy."

Warm breath fanned his ear, Dean's mouth not straying far. It made his heart dance heavily in his throat. Lips grazed delicate flesh. "Oh, yes," he said softly, turning his head in closer to Sam's, violating his personal space beyond reason. "You have no idea."

Something Dean had said to him in the dream flitted back to him. _'You have no idea how badly I want this. You think it's just you, but it isn't.' _

Was that... possible? Or was it just some random misfiring of his brain? It had to be coincidence... but, there was an overwhelming sense of _deja vu_.

"Dean, maybe you should let me up," Sam said thickly. It was almost scarier if they both felt this way. There'd be nothing to stop it.

As it was, he could feel every contour of Dean's body against his, and the strength in his brother's arms as they pinned his own. He strained against the hold, finding he was firmly pinioned; and all that did was just focus the sick desire even more firmly upon Dean.

* * *

><p>Everything in Dean's being was screaming for him to halt. All except for whatever bits were responsible for controlling his motor skills, and perhaps his inhibitions. It was like being incredibly drunk, or asleep.<p>

He'd been so jealous hearing about Sam's dead girlfriend whom he was still hung up on. It made him angry, territorial, and possibly even irrationally stupid - playing to his desire like this, and risking so much. The one overwhelming thought in his head was, _You want this, __**too**_. He wanted to revoke the importance of the girl who'd weaseled in close to his little brother and made him smitten. But he shouldn't, especially not like this.

And yet, here he had Sam pinned beneath him, panting and half aroused from some stupid dream, and he was pushing his luck, pushing the bounds of decency. It seemed like it was only when they were fighting that they could be close like this and have it be okay. But anger was fading as he spoke against Sam's ear and felt him shudder, leaving only the_ wanting_.

He was slipping farther down the path of no return, courting a flame that would never be able to be put out. It would devour everything.

Was it the medication he'd been plied with the past few days that was making this so surreal and inescapable? He played at Sam's ear, feeling the softness of it under his mouth and wanting to test it with his teeth. Could he really blame this sort of acting out upon that? Would Sam let him?

"Dean, maybe you should let me up." Sam sounded affected. Uncertain.

Dean's eyes had mostly adjusted to the near dark and he found he liked the tormented expression on Sam's face. He leaned in, threatening the sanctity of Sam's lips. He could see the feelings his brother had towards him, and the doubt and fear at having him close like this. It made him feel appeased, maybe even special, that Sam would allow himself to be thrown into such turmoil instead of rejecting him outright - instead of pushing him away. He lowered his lips to Sam's and felt texture of them. The dry heat.

This was different from before. A conscious decision this time, instead of acting mindlessly in the moment. He slid his tongue along the seam of Sam's lips, detecting something there that he wanted access to. When Sam's lips parted in a slightly ragged breath, he thrust his tongue inside, claiming him anew. It was still a novel experience. He'd kissed girls before, plenty of them. But Sam was different. Sam was used to being strong, used to being in control of encounters like this. His weakness at this moment of trespass, and his fear of breaking this taboo, translated into the kiss, making it all the more precious and intoxicating.

Dean tasted him, taking his time to explore and he felt Sam respond to him. It was in his mouth, the tautness of his body, and the muffled sound of his pleasure.

He felt Sam's arms flex against his hold, still putting up paltry resistance. It stoked the fire that had been living in ragged streaks inside of him. He exerted more force into his grip, and dared to roll his hips against his brother's, causing Sam's body to jerk and shudder against his. He repeated the motion and Sam was moaning into his mouth, adding fuel to the fire.

_I'm going to hell for this._

He released one of Sam's arms, almost inviting him to stop this from progressing, trailing his hand down the length of his lean body. He even relinquished the sultry heat of his mouth, opting to explore the side of his neck as his hand brushed down Sam's stomach and lower.

He discovered Sam's neck to be quite sensitive and he teased it mercilessly, making Sam writhe beneath him. His skin was hot to the touch beneath his shirt. His stomach was flat, toned, and skipping beneath his fingers. Sam's pulse was jumping in his throat, practically beating upon Dean's tongue, and his breathing was rough.

As he traced a hand up Sam's thigh, barely skirting his arousal, his brother jumped. "Wait, Dean," he said in a winded voice. "This... we can't..."

"Can't what?"

If Sam couldn't properly voice what he was objecting to, Dean wasn't going to pay him any mind, even if he did know exactly what was going on in his brother's head. He felt drunk on Sam's reactions and wanted more. And more was such a tiny step from where they were now. Why should they stop, when they'd already strayed so far off the path that even denial would be hard pressed to save them?

"_This_," Sam emphasized. His eyes looked a little wild. "This shouldn't be happening."

Dean gave him a lazy, hooded stare. "Say we stop here," he said, his voice low and hard. Sam's scent was driving him crazy, he could smell it, taste it. His brother was as aroused as he was, painfully so. "_Tell _me we wouldn't go stroke ourselves off afterwards, while thinking about _exactly_ what we were just going to do." Stopping now made it only a difference between doing a deed first-hand or vicariously though the imagination. It was still the same sin. Sam had to understand that. Running away changed nothing.

"T-That's," Sam stammered, startled. His voice gained strength a moment later and was full of conviction. "That's not what would happen."

"No?" Dean said, iron in his voice. Sam was trying to back out, to deny it. He wouldn't let him. "Isn't that exactly what happened before? Don't lie to me. I heard you in the shower."

"That had nothing to do with you!" Deep grey eyes flashed in the dark.

"Sammy," Dean growled, "I can tell when you're lying to me."

"Not all the time," Sam muttered, jaw clenching. His wavy bangs scattered across his forehead almost as defiantly.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Sam said stonily. "And don't even try to come off sounding all big when you have a constant stream of lies pouring from your mouth."

"I lied about_ one _thing," Dean said, pulling back, "and I already apologized profusely for it."

"Oh, right, about us being related," Sam flung out sarcastically. "Then how about that half-assed apology for kissing me before, then saying it was just camouflage so I didn't figure out it was you? Is what we're doing right now camouflage, Dean? And from what? From right here it looks like 'camouflage' was just another bald-faced lie."

"No," Dean corrected slowly, irritation spiking, "right now we're fighting. As it should be." He pulled further away from Sam, gaining some needed distance. "I don't know what I was thinking," he muttered, backtracking already. "This medication must be fucking with my head."

"Great," Sam ground out, "so now _you _have a convenient excuse to hide behind, but what about me?"

Dean looked him over, a deadpan expression on his face. God help him, it was hard to miss the deep color of that kiss-bruised mouth, and it called to him strongly, even though Sam was making him want to smack him. "You're a poor sap who's so hung up on his dead girlfriend that he wasn't in his right mind after having a dream about her." It came off sounding antagonistic, even though Dean had merely meant to show him how easily he could explain it away.

Sam shook his head and glared at him. "Convenient, if only it were true," he shot back. "But I wasn't dreaming about Jess. I lied. I was dreaming about _you_."

_Jesus. _Dean put a hand over his face. _What the hell is he thinking saying something like that? _"Why the hell you gotta tell me that, Sam? What do you expect me to do?" He'd been running from this for so long and he was tired. Tired of fighting it. He couldn't protect Sam from these debased urges if Sam wouldn't protect himself. "You're right, this shouldn't happen. But it keeps coming up and I can't get away from it."

He just wanted to give in. He'd never be able to outlast this in the long run.

He was such a failure as a brother.

"Is that why you wanted to change rooms?" Sam asked. "The _real _reason?"

Maybe Sam could keep him talking and get him through this, however. The lust that had been clouding and choking him was abating somewhat and he was starting to remember the feel of his resolve.

"Yeah." Dean looked anywhere but his face. "And you were pissed at me. I really had thought it might help."

"Instead, we end up _here_."

Dean got defensive. "I didn't know they'd put us back in the same room again."

"That's not what I mean. I'm saying, it didn't help. It didn't _change _anything. If anything, I think it might have done more harm than good."

"Ok, _Mr. Stanford_, please enlighten me, because that sounds completely mental."

Sam shook his head, trying to find words. "It's like... we were trying to have a fight, and hash things out, but then you took the means away. There was no way to resolve anything, especially being in separate rooms. And all that served to do was put us on edge which was a setup for what happened in the cafeteria."

His voice sank into the tones he used when he was trying to get through to someone empathetically, and had a quiet sort of urgency, "I think that's why Bobby put us back in the same room. So we could _talk_." He firmly emphasized the word 'talk' as if reminding them of what they _should_ have been doing all this time, instead of what they _were _doing.

"Well, won't he be disappointed," Dean said under his breath.

"We need to work this out, Dean," Sam insisted. "This..." he faltered a little. "We hadn't even seen each other in years. We have to remember how to be family again."

"We?" Dean scoffed bitterly. "**I** never forgot. Maybe _you _did." He shook his head. "But I just... I can't see you the same way anymore. I'm sorry."

"You need to_ try_."

"Sammy, I'm telling you, I _**can't**_." Dean felt frustration peaking as Sam's careless insistence smacked aside his efforts. "All I've been doing is trying and it isn't fucking working." He slid off the bed and grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it.

"Where are you going?"

"I need some space," he said shortly. He tried the door and it wasn't locked from the outside. Lucky him.

He stalked down the hall quietly, knowing and not caring that he was breaking curfew. If they'd realized he'd wake up tonight, they'd probably have locked him in. Sam, on the other hand, he was a regular boy scout who obeyed the rules so they needn't have bothered. You'd be hard pressed to find even one toe of his out of line.

So how was it that Sam'd had so very much out of line just a short while ago? Only to then twist everything around and make it sound like a little talking could bring them around? How could talking possibly change or erase what was growing between them? It pissed him off that Sam was acting like he hadn't thought deeply on the matter, that he hadn't been struggling with it and fighting with himself to leave things be.

It was so much harder to bear like this - Sam practically admitting to feeling the same way, then wanting to pretend, _together_, that everything was normal and peachy fucking keen.

He needed to have Bobby switch their rooms back, no matter what Sam thought. He'd go insane trying to keep his distance.

The community locker room and bathing area was deserted and dark as he entered it. Appropriate for this time of night. The sickly green blue tiles and the grungy look of the place were enough to make you expect to see blood slung about everywhere or something equally gruesome. He knew it was cleaned daily, but the room looked grimy and forlorn, blackened in the edges, like it hadn't been used for a few decades.

He ignored such details, like he always did, and moved further inside.

He had not been joking when he said to Sam that stopping where they did wouldn't really save them. He'd been dead serious. The_ need _wouldn't stop just because they did, and it still demanded an outlet. It reared its vicious, ugly head even as he locked himself into a stall, preparing to deal with it. It swarmed him with greedy, grasping fingers, as he took himself in hand, unmaking his resistance and worming its way into his thoughts, taking them over.

It put Sam before him, practically on a silver platter.

There was no resistance this time. No stalling words. No clinging questions of morality. Just the feel of bare skin and heat.

There was just the damning pleasure he couldn't fight against. He corrupted them with it in his thoughts as he sank into Sam in both mind and body, craving the euphoria like a beast, crushing Sam's mouth beneath his.

He leaned against the wall, head tilting back as his body shook with desperate desire, flesh hard in his hand. He'd never let his thoughts go this far before. Always, he'd stopped himself from even starting to imagine it, what it would be like to penetrate the body he craved. And he hadn't intended to go very far tonight either. He was just opening the doorway and seeing if Sam would cross the threshold. He'd just wanted to touch, and taste a little.

But a little was leading to a lot more in his head, and it was breaking the seals on his restraint.

He was so drunk on desire he felt sick.

His heart was beating double time and the vision in his head was too real as he thrust into his hand. It was Sam he felt around him, Sam who was leaning into him, fucking his mouth with his tongue as Dean's body shuddered violently.

Release was sharp, intense, but the craving remained.

He slid down the wall, body shaking with aftershocks. His mind felt like a blown fuse.

It was best not to think.

He closed his eyes and focused on catching his breath.

There was an idea floating around in his head, a place he'd been planning to go after here. Now was the perfect chance, being the first time in a long while that he hadn't been under lock and key. It was time to see what it was like underground. Providing he could get into the cafeteria. He needed salt... he was fresh out.

The lighter was still in his jacket pocket, in case he discovered anything he needed to burn. The problem was accelerant. But maybe the kitchens would have something useful.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Chapter title from the song below. This one is instrumental for the first half, fyi. I also really was stuck on "Killing Time" while writing this chapter. (But I already posted that song, so I'm just mentioning it. And re-posting a snippet. ^^ )

_(So how can it be)_  
><em>The color of the world had turned dark on me<em>  
><em>(Falling free)<em>  
><em>Losing my reflection and my clarity<em>  
><em>(Talk to me)<em>  
><em>I feel the sickness taking over me<em>

**Infected Mushroom - "Special Place"**

Turning back, turning back,  
>to my special place.<br>Give it up, give it up  
>all the fears we shaaare.<br>Turning back, turning back,  
>to my special place.<br>Give it up give it up  
>all the fears we shaaare.<br>And i just don't cAaare,  
>all the fears we shaaare,<br>and i just don't cAaare.

[Bridge] x9  
>Bring it up bring it up, Don't take it dooown<br>bring it up bring it up

_bring it up bring it up_  
><em>bring it up bring it up<em>  
><em>bring it up bring it uUuuuuup<em>

Turning back, turning back,  
>to my special place.<br>Give it up, give it up  
>all the fears we shaaare.<br>Turning back, turning back,  
>to my special place.<br>Give it up give it up  
>all the fears we shaaare.<p>

And i just don't cAaare,  
>all the fears we shaaare.<br>And i just don't cAaare,  
>all the fears we shaaare.<p>

And i just don't cAaare,  
>all the fears we shaaare.<br>And i just don't cAAAaaaaaare.


	14. Legend of the Black Shawarma

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 13: Legend of the Black Shawarma <span>

Dean made his way down into the basement, following the bobbing circle of light his flashlight threw on the floor. His raid on the kitchen had been a success. He'd grabbed a canister of salt which had a convenient metal pour spout, a bottle of lighter fluid for the grill the food staff sometimes cooked on outside, and a pair of full salt shakers, just in case. He'd even scrounged himself up a pretty damn good sandwich. It was already hitting his system, clearing his head and making him feel much better than before.

The staffers had everything locked up tight, but getting in had been easy. They never had discovered the lock picks hidden inside the lining of his jacket. He'd modded the jacket years ago, finding pockets to be iffy in a scuffle and inconvenient when someone decided to search him. At the inside seam, just under the left arm, he'd attached tiny loops to the inner side of the leather, into which the picks could sit until they were needed. He'd soldered a washer onto the bottoms of the metal tools and hung them upside-down which kept them from slipping through the loops. They were short-handled, too, which, along with the stiffness of the leather jacket, made them hard to notice in a pat down. He had done the same with the other side, storing the other half of the set to make it feel even.

Metal detectors were still sort of an issue, so he'd had the buttons and snaps on the jacket switched to ones that were made of a heavily copper-based material. Like really old pennies, they would make detectors go nuts. The hand units would ping especially hard going over the closures along the front of the jacket, convincing whomever was holding it that it was probably the one and only culprit. It wouldn't work on someone who was particularly sharp or determined, who might investigate more thoroughly, but it had worked thus far. In his experience, anyone working a 40+ hour a week job was bound to get bored and unmotivated and lacking in initiative. Didn't matter if it was a secretary, a mechanic or a police officer. People were essentially all the same underneath.

_Speaking of mechanics, _he thought distractedly as he pulled out some of his picks for the double metal doors that led to the tunnels, _I miss having a car to work on_. A chain was looped through the handles, a heavy lock securing it. He set to work, the pen flashlight in his teeth providing illumination, and wondered how his father had ended up in the spook business. He'd never really talked about it. He'd just trained Dean either in that or on fixing cars, his paying line of work, and there wasn't much conversation otherwise.

_Dad, you were a kind of shitty role model, you know that?_

The Impala had temporarily been his, for a few years even, but John decided he wanted it back when he got out of the mental hospital. Dean had argued with him, being rather partial to the car himself, but his dad pulled the "it reminds me of your mother, and better times" card and he'd had to admit defeat. _Stubborn sonuvabitch._

His consolation prize was a light teal 1974 Volkswagen Rabbit, a thoroughly embarrassing car to be seen in. It was like driving around in a freaking clown car. Tiny, no trunk, hardly any leg room. It did ride nice, though.

He was pretty sure his dad was fucking with him over the color. He'd refinished it for Dean as a birthday present, as it was down to bare metal. It was supposed to be painted dark green, black, burnt orange, or some other reasonable color. His dad claimed that his friend who was doing him a favor had just used whatever he had on hand.

_Fucking light teal, _he thought, shaking his head. Who the hell paints a car that color?

The lock clicked, dropping its pants for him, and it reminded him of how hard it was to get laid after anyone had caught sight of him in the Rabbit. He'd taken to _walking _to bars, just to up his chances. Better a poor bastard with no car, than a car like that. It was a chick car. He'd actually, mortifyingly enough, been congratulated on how 'cute' it was by a few girls he'd been trying to hook up with, which was a total buzz-kill and could throw him off his game for a good week or more. After the third time it happened, he gave up and wouldn't be caught dead in the thing unless he was working.

His dad'd had a good laugh over it on more times than one.

_Dad... _

It wasn't all bad, staying with him. Not by any means. They'd managed to be pretty close, harassment and all. He wasn't sure how he felt about not hearing from his father in the time he'd been in the hospitals... But his dad wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type. Besides, what would he say?

_'Sorry they got you.'?_  
><em>'Nice going, screwing up a job and getting picked up by the padded wagon'?<em>  
><em>'You disappoint me, son.'?<em>  
><em>'Better luck next time'?<em>

He stashed the picks back in his jacket, feeling irritation again over his massive fuck up. One mistake, and he was still paying for it years later. Consolation #1 being that he'd at least gotten to see Sam, for the first time in ages, before it happened. Consolation #2, sort of... he'd been reunited with him, here, of all places. But he still did wonder how it might have gone if he'd just walked up to him and said, _'Hey, it's me.' _Maybe they'd be at some local dive, sharing a beer and checking out the home-grown T&A.

Ah, but then again, Sammy wasn't the type. He'd probably shoot him that 'you're pathetic', superior sort of prissy look he got sometimes. _Then I could go on to point out how he has a severe lacking in knowing-how-to-have-fun. He's totally wasting his college experience._

But he liked hanging around Sam. Liked harassing him.

Something about his goody-two-shoes mentality managed to click with him, instead of bugging him, though he gave Sam all sorts of crap over it. Sam had integrity and a sort of brightness to him that was appealing. He just liked being around it.

He might look at nearly every girl with two legs and a halfway decent face, but they were forgotten just as quick. Sam was just different. He'd thought, once upon a time, that it was because they were family, but he'd known enough other people now to understand that plenty of families were about as close as enemies. They certainly didn't have some self-sacrificing martyrdom complex, or a decade long obsession.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. He was trying _not_ to think of Sam, here. He had work to do. He didn't need to be spacing out.

He unwrapped the chain from the handles and put the lock in his pocket so it couldn't be used to seal him in accidentally, then swung the metal doors wide. They made an ungodly scraping noise that made the hair stand up on his arms. The blackened hallway they led into smelled of must and rats. He picked up the canister of salt and the lighter fluid in one hand and trained the pen light into the opening with his other. It was square, the corridor, and pipes ran along the right hand edge of the ceiling. It looked creepy as hell, even though the walls were painted white. Pitch blackness swallowed everything past the weak circle of light.

He shrugged and headed inside.

From what he'd gathered, Oak Grove Sanitarium used to be quite a well-known place back in the day. At one time, there were thousands of the mentally ill housed here. Though at a certain point, they suddenly began dropping like flies. Somehow, no one knew what was going on. It was a big fucking mystery that smelled of a cover-up.

He figured it was probably some crazy ass doctors who were more fucked in the head than their patients and were trying out various 'remedies'. This was all back in the time of electric shock therapy and clumsy lobotomies. He sure as hell was grateful the reforms cut a lot of that out of the programs before he was landed here. People were capable of some freaky shit.

He scanned the hall as he walked, sweeping the light in a steady, exploratory zigzag. He noticed spots of dim, pale light from time to time near the ceiling. It was watery moonlight seeping in through glass block at regular intervals, probably at ground level on the outside.

This place would have some decent lighting during the day. Enough to see by, at least.

About 10 minutes in, he came to the first room, on the left hand side. He tried the handle and found it to be unlocked, though it was rusty and turned with difficulty. Loose dirt and debris made the door sluggish, and he had to push against it with his shoulder to force it open.

He shone his light inside, and it skimmed off of wooden chairs, a couple of school desks, and an open shower stall on the back wall, partially obscured by a ratty curtain on a rack. He eased inside, mindful of the junk that lay in piles on the floor. There were some kid's toys, some canned food stacked into a tower, an old basketball. He frowned. It was almost like a storage room. Or a doctor's waiting room, what with the odds and ends to keep a child occupied.

A shuffling scrape came from the back corner and he tensed, whipping his light over the area.

Something like whispers or the rustling of dry leaves sounded faintly to his left. No, to his right.

_"Shhhhhh."_

A faint hiss, like an exhale, sounded behind him, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

He turned, flinging a handful of salt in the same motion, and the sensation ceased. He brought the light back up, sweeping the area again, seeing nothing between him and the rigid metal door frame that opened into the ominously blackened hallway. The walls of this room were painted white, too, like much of the facility, but age and the elements had discolored the walls. The ugly orange of water and erosion damage stained them in patches near the ceiling.

He noticed a wooden chair in the back that looked strange to him, so he went to check it out. It was a stiff, unforgiving thing that had to beyond uncomfortable. There was nothing around it, really, just more of the same debris. Wadded papers and cloth here and there. More kid's toys. Metal bands were attached to the arms, that lay open in a broken circle. Looked like restraints.

He'd seen something like it before. In school once, a teacher had been discussing various states in the US and their stances on corporal punishment. There'd been an old black and white picture of a chair, dubbed "Old Sparky". It was a lovely contraption for electrocuting people, and the nickname was good across many of the states that used electric chairs for execution. The picture was of a chair in Arkansas. It had had leather buckle restraints on it, unlike this one.

Dean stepped over a broken rocking horse toy and sat in it, resting his arms upon the arms of the chair. The curve of the metal restraints were cold under his wrists. He closed one upon his right wrist and it was tight enough that he'd never be able to slip it. Two holes lined up on the outside, big enough to slip a lock through. That had to be a horrible feeling - being trapped like that, both arms immobile, for god knows what do be done to you.

He flexed his hand and felt grooves beneath his fingers, furrows upon the arm of the chair that matched the path his fingers took if he drew them to his fist upon the wood._ Gouged by someone's nails._

He shone the light upon it and the wood looked stained.

_Blood?_

Another scuffing noise caught his attention.

He took his hand out of the metal cuff and arced the pen light's beam out over the room. Nothing.

There hadn't been anything else in the room that looked like remains. No hair, bones, or whatnot. But the blood on the chair, if that's what it was, could certainly be a problem. It was best to burn it.

Keeping the light sweeping the room in surveillance, he reached behind him, shaking salt upon the chair. Then he set the canister down and picked up the bottle of lighter fluid, squeezing a stream upon the chair.

Still, he saw nothing, though there was a claustrophobic pressure encroaching upon the space, thick with the feel of withheld whispers.

He traded the lighter fluid for the lighter in his pocket and touched the flame to the arm of the chair. It flared as it caught fire, following the paths of fluid and brightening the room as the wood started to burn.

After a few minutes of waiting, he decided to just kick all the surrounding junk out of the way and let the thing burn on its own. The walls of the room were concrete and the door was metal. Really, the whole room could light up and it wouldn't be in danger of burning this place down.

There was a lot more to check out down here and he didn't have unlimited time.

The next room of note was a locked one. He set at it with his picks, training the pen light on the lock with his teeth. It was also severely rusted which made it take longer to crack. His jaw started to ache around the metal barrel he held in his mouth. Finally, with a crunch, it gave way.

This door also required some muscle to force open. The room itself seemed much cleaner and in less disrepair. The floor was some slick surface, reminiscent of linoleum tile. Kind of like what was in the infirmary.

He swung his light around. In this fairly barren room, there were what looked like large animal cages on stands with wheels. There were a lot of them. Maybe seven, all crowded along the right hand wall. Upon closer inspection, the floor of each one was lined with a mattress, the size of which a small child might use. Many were stained, implying their occupants were caged for long stretches at a time.

_Man,_ he thought in disgust, _**people.**_

He'd rather deal with monsters. They made more sense.

He swung his beam of light up as he turned to go deeper into the room and jumped back as it caught upon a face just in front of him. The apparition flickered, eyes rolling and head tilting at an unnatural angle. It was a female, black, though her skin looked pale, and she wore a dated white straight jacket. Red bled through, seeping through the material like she'd been sliced all over.

_Could be why _this _room was locked_, he thought drolly.

Dean took a few quick steps back as she focused upon him, solidifying. Her face, framed by long, tightly curled black hair, bore lacerations as well. Her mouth began dripping blood as she looked up at him with curdled hatred.

He had a feeling this one was going to be a problem. Where was a gun loaded with rock salt shells when you needed one?

She bared her teeth at him and the blood bubbled like red foam.

His pen light began flickering madly.

He backed up double time, aiming for the relative safety of the hall, dropping the bottle of lighter fluid to better free up his hands for the salt. Holding the pen light with his thumb, he began to pour salt into the palm of his hand as he retreated.

The image pulsed and she disappeared, reappearing at the back of the room, nose in the corner. She was still except for her heaving shoulders. The cages started to rattle around him. Slightly at first, but then increasingly harder.

_Yeah, definitely not good._

He booked it out of there while she was turned, salt fisted in his palm. Glancing back as he reached the thresh hold, he jumped, heart hammering in his throat as she was suddenly less than a foot away, body twisting forward as she screamed in his face noiselessly. Her mouth was missing its tongue and was a slick mess of red and black. He flung the salt at her even as he was knocked back through the doorway, his light spinning from his hand and skittering across the floor before going out.

For a moment, all was darkness, and the straining of his lungs as he lay on the floor trying to catch his breath. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making his blood roar in his ears. He hugged the canister of salt to him with one arm, grateful to have not lost hold of it, his only weapon. It was a shame he'd had to lose the lighter fluid, but he could always get more.

He couldn't sense her. And she wasn't killing him. Maybe he'd gotten her with the salt? Or could it be she was confined to that room?

Something grabbed his shoulder.

"Aaaughhh!" he yelled as he nearly jumped out of his skin. He struck at it reflexively and felt his arm connect with something solid. Well, that was a little too convenient, for a spirit. Those tricky bastards liked to go all incorporeal when you tried to fight back. Salt was about the only thing that amounted to pissing in their cornflakes. What freaked him out were the ones that popped back seconds later, usually right in your face. Ms. Tongueless seemed the type.

He heard someone let out a pained cough. "Ow, you jerk."

"Sam?" Dean said in a shocked whisper. "Sam! What the hell are you doing down here?"

"I followed you," Sam whispered back. "Though I'm starting to rethink the 'good idea' part of doing so."

"Where's your light?" Dean asked quickly, hoping that Sam had come bearing _something_. He had the sinking feeling there would be nothing. "Salt? Anything?"

"I didn't have one. I just had to feel my way along."

Dean cursed. "So you came down here completely unprepared?" College must've rotted the boy's brain. Dad would be beside himself; all that training, down the crapper.

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"Did you see it?" he said urgently.

"No. I heard something, and saw your light get knocked out."

"Great. So now we're running blind. I'll never find that flashlight in the dark and I am _not_ patting down the entire area." He let out an audible breath. "We need to get out of here. Now."

"Agreed. This isn't exactly my idea of a good time, even with a flashlight."

"At least I still have the lighter." He flicked the flame to life and peered at Sam briefly as if making sure he wasn't a zombie.

"Dean," Sam rolled his eyes. "It's me, okay?"

Dean flipped the lighter closed, plunging them back into darkness. "Here, take this." He pressed a weirdly shaped object with vertical ridges into his brother's hand.

"What the hell is it?"

"Salt shaker. If you see or feel something, shake it at the thing." He grabbed the canister of salt, pulling the metal spout forward, and started drawing a line on the floor from one wall to the other, just past where he estimated the doorway to be. Aside from the carved beauty, who didn't seem to be reappearing, there was no telling what else might be roaming around. Most spirits gave off a faint radioactive glow, but some didn't. He was betting the kind that didn't would be the kind to sneak up on a guy without a flash light.

"Now what are you doing?"

"Salt line. I don't want anything trying to gank me from behind."

"You really think that'll be a problem?" Sam asked dubiously.

Dean shrugged, though Sam couldn't see it. "Could be. It's better not to take chances." The immediate danger did seem to be over. But he would definitely need to come back to torch whatever bit of the ghost's physical remains were keeping it here and foaming at the mouth.

He finished laying the line. When he was done, he started walking back up the tunnel, saying, "All right, let's go."

They walked for several minutes in silence, with their shoes making the only noise. It was not as completely dead black as Dean thought it would be. The moonlight was just enough to navigate by without having to touch the walls to keep from running into them. He still would have preferred his flashlight though.

Sam broke the silence first. "So, uh... Is this the sort of bonding you and Dad used to do?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it bonding."

"But saying there are things down here that could kill you," Sam said delicately, "why in the hell would you seek it out? Isn't that kind of crazy?"

"Somebody has to."

"Has to what? Get themselves killed?"

"Sammy," Dean sighed. "Look, I know you were too young for Dad to really take you out hunting, but you know what he taught you. You can't have forgotten it all."

"What, laying spirits to rest?" He sounded skeptical. "I know, but... it seems a little unreal from over here."

"So I guess Mom brainwashed you then?"

Sam stopped walking and let out a heavy breath. "_Dean_. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just _maybe_, everything Dad told us wasn't real?"

"What are you talking about," Dean said dismissively. "Of course it's real."

"But what if-" Sam stepped around in front of him, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders. "_What_ _if..._it's real to him, but none of it really exists?"

Dean let out an aggravated noise and batted his hands away. "Nice," he said as he resumed walking. "So what I saw back there doesn't exist, huh?" Anger was creeping into his voice. "So what, I'm crazy now? Seeing things?"

"I don't know, Dean." Sam was sounding a little exasperated himself. "I'm just saying '_what if_?'."

"Yeah, well if you're talking like that then you must think this is the perfect fucking place for me to rot away in," Dean said disparagingly. "You know," he laughed humorlessly, "You better hope to hell they don't think of something to find wrong with you, or they'll have you drugged up so good you won't know your ass from a hole in the ground. Then you'll never set foot out of here, or have the Candyland kind of life Mom must've convinced you is out there."

Sam gritted his teeth and took a moment before trying to speak. "You know that's _not _what I think."

"No, I_ don't_."

"Besides," Sam said shortly. "I'm not leaving here without you. Even if you are being an asshole."

The scuffing of Dean's footfalls ceased. "What do you mean by that?" He sounded wary, on edge.

Sam sighed and wet his lips. "I'm saying that I'm going to get you out of here. And until that happens, I'll convince them I need to be here."

"No, Sam. I won't let you." Dean sounded adamant. "I'm _telling _you, if you give them even one tiny thing to poke at-"

"Dean, you can't stop me," Sam's voice was low and steely. "It's my choice. I've been without my brother long enough. I don't want to do it anymore."

"Goddamn stubborn..." Dean muttered under his breath as he resumed walking.

"With as much as you say that, you'd think you'd be used to it by now."

"Don't get cute with me, Sammy," he said shortly. The thought of Sam getting stuck in here, too... and of his own volition... it was nuts. He wouldn't let him. Sam, at least, needed to get out and live his own life. Life had more to offer him than _he _did, than Oak Grove did, as much as it killed him to admit that.

There was a part of him, though... a very selfish part... that held on to Sam's words, wanting the devotion they promised. He wanted Sam with him. Whether it was here or on the outside, he didn't want to lose him again. "Haven't you got friends out there that'll be worried about you? Isn't there work and school you should be thinking about?"

"Sure," Sam said pensively, not deigning to speak further.

"What, that's it? 'Sure'?" They'd reached the end of the tunnel, and entered the basement.

"Yeah," Sam affirmed shortly, helping him shoulder one of the metal doors shut. "That's it."

Dean felt irritation at his brother bubbling beneath the surface. He looped the chain back around the door handles by feel and replaced the lock after digging about for it in his jacket. Luckily, he hadn't dropped it. "So you'd just throw your life away, just like that?"

Sam sighed heavily and Dean knew it would have been accompanied by an eye roll. "I'm not throwing my life away. I'm just going to be gone a little while." His tone got a little edgy. "Or is my plan to get you out of here an inconvenience? Maybe you actually like it here? You want to stay cut off from the world, where no one can challenge your point of view or beliefs?"

Dean shook his head and headed up the stairs, to the facility's main floor. _The things that came out of that boy's mouth... _Like it here? Here? He had to be fucking kidding. And it was a poor-ass sense of humor he had to make that sort of joke. "Sammy, do me a favor and shut up."

Sam came up the stairs behind him, joining him in the visible dark at the top of the stairs. He glared at Dean. "Why don't you want anyone to help you?" he said in a hushed voice.

"Not anyone, _**you**_." Dean said just as quietly, returning the petulant look. "I don't want _you_ to help me."

"Well, why not? Is it because I didn't let you-"

Dean clapped a hand over Sam's mouth before he could voice the rest. The last thing he needed to hear was some crap like that - that Sam thought he was being difficult because Sam had monkey-wrenched them getting sexually involved. "Watch your mouth," he said sharply, "and don't you _ever_ try saying something like that again." Even though his was pissed, he couldn't help noting how soft and enticing Sam's lips felt against his fingers. "Sam, I've been_ trying_ to leave. I want out of here, and all the damn places like this I've been in. But I do **not** want you doing anything stupid which will screw up your life, okay? Not for me. I couldn't stand that."

Sam pulled Dean's hand down from his mouth, lips trailing skin. "I've barely thought about anything outside of this place since coming here."

"Well, you should." Dean pulled his hand back and looked away. Sam had a knack for saying things that were questionable. Between his words and his straightforward, keen gaze, Dean was becoming taken with the urge to pull him close again and crush his mouth against those lips of his. _No. Bad dog._"Come on, let's get out of here. They do patrol at night, you know."

Sam followed him in silence as they made their way back to their room. The darkened halls were a little spooky, but were clear of any other living beings.

"Dean," Sam said under his breath, after a time, keeping pace so he could speak in his ear. "What would you say if I told you Dad might be coming here?"

Dean shot him a perturbed look. "I'd ask you how you knew that?"

Sam's gaze drifted off of him and he looked straight ahead, his countenance a bit rigid. "I've been having these dreams lately..."

"Dreams?" Dean said incredulously. "You're telling me you believe something's going to happen because of some dream?"

"Yeah."

"Well, hell, maybe you are in the right place after all."

"Dean," Sam hissed, "I'm serious."

"Yeah? Well so am I."

Sam ran a hand over his face. "Remember when I was in third grade, and I was convinced that some black dogs were going to come after me?"

Dean laughed a little. "You were scared shitless for almost two weeks."

Sam smacked him. "And you remember what happened?"

"Oh yeah, some old bat's Chihuahuas set themselves on you. That was a freaking riot."

"That wasn't funny, Dean, I needed stitches."

Dean chuckled. "Sorry Sammy, it _was_ funny. You shoulda seen the look on your face when the three of them chased you home."

"One was a Maltese."

"Not helping your case, bro," he laughed.

"Okay, whatever," Sam said in irritation. "The point is, sometimes I kind of... see stuff before it happens. Not always as clearly as would be _helpful_. The dogs I saw in the dream had looked intimidating, but mostly it was just the jaws I saw snapping at me." He ran a hand through his hair. "How about in 4th grade, when I kept telling you Dad was going to get hurt?"

Dean rubbed his jaw. "Yeah, I sorta remember something about that. He got injured on a hunt and had to tell Mom it happened at the shop. Man, did she look suspicious."

"So I'm telling you," Sam labored to say, "I keep having dreams about the Impala, and I think Dad is coming."

"Sammy," he interrupted, derailing Sam's train of thought to broach something that had come to mind, "let me ask you something." It wasn't that he believed in prophetic or psychic dreams, certainly not when coming from his kid brother, but... there was a good deal of coincidence involved here, so there must be something to it. Whether it was extra-sensory perception or uncanny intuition, he didn't know, but it raised the same question.

"What?"

"You've been having these freaky fortune-telling dreams of yours..." Dean trailed off with a frown, not sure exactly what he was trying to say. He gave Sam an uneasy, speculative look.

"...uh, yeah?" Sam prompted.

Dean chewed at the inside of his lip, picking words. "Was that the kind of dream you had when you said you were dreaming about me?" It kind of wigged him out, wondering what kind of truths his brother was uncovering if this mumbo jumbo had any merit.

Sam froze, suspiciously stock still for a moment, eyes wide. "No," he said too quickly. Then mumbled, "I don't know."

"Liar," Dean said, rounding on him. "What did you see?"

Sam backed away, shaking his head, "Nothing. I didn't see anything." He was trying to cover for it, but he looked spooked.

Dean moved forward, dogging him until his back hit the wall, making Sam jump. "Sammy," he warned. "I'm prepared to force it out of you."

"Just let it go, Dean," he said as he looked away, his brows drawn together. "It doesn't matter."

"Oh really?" Dean said. "So you had some dream involving me, which had quite an _interesting _effect on you, and you say it was unimportant?"

Sam's face flushed and he could see it. "I dreamed about a lot of things."

Dean violated Sam's personal space threateningly, his gaze hooded and focused. Inches away from his brother's face, he said, "You specifically mentioned_ me_."

Sam looked shifty and he wet his lips. "Yeah. I... saw you trying to kill Gordon."

"And?" he drifted closer, wanting to make Sam talk by putting the pressure on. Though if Sam decided not to, he could follow through on the threat and feel that mouth against his again. He tried to put such thoughts aside, but they kept bobbing to the surface of his mind. "That can't be all," he murmured, watching as Sam got even more twitchy, and his face colored further. It was a game. The closer he drew, the more frequently Sam's dark grey eyes flicked to him and the darker they got.

"You shot him," Sam said, eyes almost solidly on him now. "You said he was a monster, but he was only human."

Dean put that away to process later. He was entirely too focused on this game of cat and mouse at the moment. "Unless seeing someone get killed gets you off, there was something else."

Sam's heart was beating in his chest like it was trying to bust through his ribs as Dean leaned in, close enough that he could feel soft breath on his lips. His thoughts were going hazy as he tried to focus and resist giving up the truth that would damn him. His body was like one live nerve, pulsing with electricity. He'd been set on defying Dean's prediction, so he had not given in to relieving the pressure in his system from earlier. It was coming back to haunt him now.

"Sammy?" Dean prompted, his voice dipping lower and skating through Sam's belly.

"You..." he said hoarsely. "You, uh... kisse-"

And then Dean's mouth was brushing against his, quickening his desire and sealing it in with the slow melding of lips and tongues.

His eyes drifted closed as Dean pressed against him, deepening the kiss, passion throttling him senseless.

Why was it so hard to say no to this?

He knew it was wrong, in so many ways... but then, why did it feel so right?

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - "Legend of the Black Shawarma"**

[music]

[vocal distortions]

[music]

_Ahhaah_

_Ahhhhaaaaah_

Take one look at yourself, and realize  
>Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise<br>And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes  
>How you treated your life, it wasn't too wise<br>Cause its getting closer  
>[x2]<p>

Cause it's getting closer  
>Cause it's getting closeeeer<br>Cause it's getting closeeEeer...eeahr...Eeaaarh... eAaahr... [vocal distortions]

[music ramping up]

Cause it's getting closer  
>[x9]<p>

_Cause it's getting cloSeeeR!_

[music -break-]

Take one look at yourself, and realize  
>Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise<br>And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes  
>How you treated your life, wasn't too wise<br>Cause it's getting closer

[x3]

[music]

Take one look at yourself, and realize  
>Life's been treating you nice, you better be wise<br>And enjoy your moment

Take one look at yourself, into your eyes  
>How you treated your life, wasn't too wise<br>Cause its getting clos_EER_


	15. Slowly

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 14: Slowly <span>

Desire was a hard knot in Sam's stomach by the time they made it back to their room. He knew his face was flushed with it as Dean walked him backwards to the bed, as they removed their shirts. Anxiety was also riding him when he was given room to think, but as Dean's mouth rejoined his, it paled in the face of desire.

There was no spoken agreement, they just both knew somehow that this was going to happen. Dean's hands slid up his body, over the muscles of his sides, over his ribs, then back down again, touching everywhere and making him throb with need. They lingered upon the waistband of his pants, pulling down on it teasingly, and stroking his hips with dexterous fingers.

His heart thudded in his chest, anticipation mounting.

Dean slid a hand behind his head then, running it though his hair and clenching a fist in it as he slid within Sam's mouth with an intuitive tongue.

He'd never tasted kisses this hot, or felt such desperate longing.

He wondered if he'd be going to hell for this.

He _ached_ to be touched. And hell be damned, it had to be Dean. Nothing else would do. Nothing else could come close. He moaned into Dean's mouth as firm hands slid over his ass and squeezed, grinding their hips together. Sam copied the motion, feeling pleasure spiraling within his gut with increasing intensity. Their breathing was ragged as they clung to each other roughly, fingers digging in and grasping as they moved.

Dean forewent the bed, backing him up against the wall with a solid thud and thrusting against him.

Sam's eyes rolled back in his head as pleasure started to punch through him, exquisitely painful. He could feel his entire body flushing hot, and knowing that it was Dean's hard length against his stomach, Dean's mouth playing at his throat... it was turning him on even more. Like that should even be possible.

He groaned as his body suddenly tensed up, starting to tremor, and he gripped his brother's shoulders as his back began to arch. Dean's skin was damp with a fine sheen of sweat under his hands, and that, too, was unbearably sexy to him just then. Sam shuddered violently against him as he lost control, catching a flash of the most erotically lust-filled eyes he'd ever seen before Dean's mouth crashed against his, swallowing his sounds of pleasure.

Dean's body tensed against his as he was still riding the aftershocks, head still swimming with the feel of them.

"Fuck," Dean swore as he came, bruised lips barely leaving his to utter the word.

His head fell upon Sam's shoulder, then, as he caught his breath. As they both did.

"I don't suppose," Sam said, still winded, "things might be a little awkward after this?" It was kind of meant as a joke. He was still high on the euphoric haze that had settled on him.

"Only if you let it," Dean responded. "And that's not funny."

Sam laughed and slid to the floor, feeling pleasantly worn out. "Kinda was."

"Idiot," Dean relented, sliding down next to him and leaning his head against the wall. "Man, I could really go for a beer right about now. How 'bout you?"

"Sure. But the rain check you give me had better be good for a while." He tilted his head to look at Dean. "I don't see us making it to a pub anytime soon." Actually, being in an asylum was not as bad as Sam thought it would be, at least, not so far. Being stuck in a building, unable to leave, was still something that took some getting used to, though.

"True," Dean sighed. "I'm willing to move that to the top of my 'When I Get Out of Here' list, though, if you're game."

"Sounds like a plan," Sam yawned. Suddenly he felt exhausted. Good, but exhausted.

"Sammy?" Dean said uncertainly after a long pause. "We ok?" He didn't sound tired at all.

"I'll let you know in the morning," Sam said gravely, still in a joking mood.

"Ass," Dean said, shouldering his arm. "I was being serious."

"Yeah, me too," he murmured, sleep musing his words. "But I'm sure it's fine."

"You gonna sleep right here?"

"Mmmhmm."

"On the floor?"

"Mm."

Dean sighed and Sam felt him sling his arm over his shoulders and drag him to his feet. "No, you're not. There's a perfectly good bed less than three feet away. Never knew you were so goddamn lazy, Sammy."

Dean lowered his body onto the bed, rolled him into it, then threw the sheet over him.

"Where you going?" Sam asked sleepily as Dean went to his own bed.

"To sleep where I can't be killed, in case you get a hair up your ass by the time you wake up."

Sam's eyes rolled reflexively, even though his eyes were closed. "Don't be stupid. Come back over here." He waited a moment but heard no movement. "Dean," he called impatiently, craning his head towards the other bed. "If you don't, I promise to beat the shit out of you **and **make you miss breakfast."

"Sonuvabitch," he heard Dean mutter under his breath. "You _would_, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Fine," Dean said, his bed creaking as he got up. He flopped down next to Sam, making sure to do it hard enough to bounce the mattress. "Happy?"

"Don't be a dick," Sam mumbled, tossing an arm over his waist. Dean's lean body was warm and comfortable against his, and felt right. Pleasure eddied languidly within him. "G'night," he murmured before sleep took him.

"'Night," Dean said, settling against him.

It was a fragile sort of contentment that stole over Dean, and wonder - that what had happened had just happened, that remnants of pleasure were still warming him and that Sam was sleeping peacefully at his side. His wavy, light brown hair was scattered messily over his forehead, longer now than it had been when he first came here, and Sam's arm curled around his waist possessively in sleep, almost like a little kid with his favorite toy. Endearing.

It was all much more comfortable than it should have been. Dean figured it still had time to blow up by morning. For now though, he'd just try to pretend everything was fine.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Dean got up early, a little restless. He guessed he was a little on edge and didn't think he wanted to linger in bed, waiting to gauge Sam's frame of mind, up close and personal. They'd gone slowly into this - not going nearly as far as they might have with each other - but in case things went south, he wanted a little distance.<p>

Besides, even if things didn't go completely in the hole, mornings after were kind of awkward for him. There were always expectations. Some people wanted to lay about forever, 'cuddling' and such, or having quasi-romantic, kissy pillowtalk. He wasn't one for that sort of thing. He had no idea if Sam was, but his brother _was_ more of a touchy-feely type, so it was possible... Dean had a half irrational fear, picturing it playing out like that in his head, and thought he might lose respect for Sam if something like that happened.

Sam stirred, catching sight of him pacing with bleary eyes. He promptly dropped his head back on the pillow with a groan. "Should I even ask what you're doing?"

"Nope."

He was already found out, so he resumed pacing. He wondered what time it was but couldn't be bothered to check the clock. He was also hungry as hell, but he wouldn't be going in to the mess hall without Sam, so eating hadn't mattered until his brother woke up. And how awkward might this breakfast be?

He realized suddenly that he was terrified.

Properly terrified of the consequences of what had happened between them.

He heard rustling and looked back over at Sam who was getting up and pulling on a shirt.

He'd already done the same, not wanting to traipse about half naked, in light of recent events. If anything, right now he was obsessed with damage control. He thought he'd wanted things to change between them, but now he was afraid of what those changes might entail. Now he wondered if he would regret what had happened. What if things just weren't the same anymore? What if he and Sam didn't act like they used to?

"Come on, let's go," Sam said, breaking the circling of his thoughts.

"Where?"

"You're hungry, right?" His grey eyes had an assessing look in their gaze. "So if you're finished bugging out, maybe we could grab a bite to eat."

Dean frowned at him. "I'm not bugging out."

"Yeah," Sam said, putting on some shoes. "You are."

Dean chewed on that and found he had nothing he could really say. "Well, even if I was, could you blame me?"

"Technically? Since you started it? Yeah, I could."

"Oh, so it's my fault things happened?" Shit. He was feeling defensive. "You're mad now?"

Sam tossed him a leveling look. "You want me to be mad? You want me to tell you how messed up this is, and how it's all your fault and that you've ruined my life?"

Dean blinked at him, shaking his head as the words were hitting him like sucker punches. It was everything he was afraid of, being sarcastically thrown back in his face. "Well,_ no_, I..."

"Look, let's just eat, and if you feel the need to_ talk _about this later, fine."

Dean frowned harder. "_Fine_." Sam was making him sound like a freaking girl. "Bitch," he added after a moment.

"Jerk," Sam tossed out over his shoulder as he left the room.

* * *

><p>"Looks like it's not too crowded here at this time," Sam said, looking around the cafeteria as he drank some coffee.<p>

"Mn," Dean said, across from him, taking a huge bite of pancakes and home fries. He was in a much better mood now, seeing that they could bicker like before. Nothing seemed wholly amiss in the way they dealt with each other, and that was a load off. The only difference then, was this new dimension that may have been instituted in their relationship. But there was no telling if it would stick or if they would be passing it off as something to forget about.

Dean swallowed his mouthful of food and said, "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"Maybe later. I just wanted coffee."

Sam had faint circles under his eyes. He wondered if he did too. They hadn't slept long. Hell, they hadn't even been in the room more than a few hours after coming back from the expedition to the basement tunnels.

"Winchesterrr," a familiar voice said in greeting, and Garth slid onto the bench next to him. He looked a little less twitchy than normal, a cup of coffee held tightly in his hand that was already half empty. It was likely his third. His hair was still a crazy ginger-colored cloud about his head, making him look like a mad scientist. "Heard you were in Solitary till last night."

"Yeah. Fun stuff." Dean shrugged it off and resumed eating, not bothering to correct him that he'd gotten out of Solitary earlier than Intel claimed. He wondered why Garth just happened to be here right now when he wanted to be alone with Sam and try and get a handle on things. Though it wasn't completely unusual that the man was here at this hour. Sometimes Garth came into the mess hall early; occasionally they'd even eat together. He guessed that today it was just his bad luck.

"You look tired," Garth observed.

"So does Campbell," Jared observed in turn, sliding onto the bench next to Sam, across from Dean, a loaded tray in his hands. He fancied himself a bodybuilder and could sure eat like one.

Dean felt the room closing in on him as the other bookend arrived. Garth by himself might not have been too much trouble, bet get at least two members of the card circle together and they easily got each other going. He already knew what was coming, the guys had been ribbing him over Sam for some time now. "Guys, I'd kinda like to eat alone, if you don't mind," he said brusquely, then took a swig of coffee, radiating,_ Go the fuck away_.

Jared looked at Garth, and Garth looked at Jared.

"You don't look so alone to me." Jared turned to Sam and casually looked him over. "You're Sam, right? The roommate?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, looking like he was wondering what might have been said about him as he shook Jared's offered hand.

"Nice to meet you, finally," the weightlifter said in a tone that implied all sorts of things. He smiled at Sam in a friendly manner as if unaware of his growing unease.

"Knock it off," Dean said, spearing some crispy potatoes on his fork and shoveling them into his mouth. They were good this morning. Nice and spicy. "You know I didn't say shit about anything," he said around the food. Jared was just having some fun messing with Sam's head.

"Yeah, your entire m.o. is not saying shit about much of anything," Jared agreed, settling his attention back to his tray. "But I can't help noticing how _tired _you both look," he continued in mock concern, buttering a piece of toast from his mountain of food. "Wild night?"

To Sam's credit, he didn't choke, even though he'd been taking what looked to be a hefty swig of coffee at that precise moment. "Yeah," Dean said with a smile, "Kept him up all night while boning one_ hot_ ass nurse who was sent in to take care of me. Who said Solitary doesn't come with some perks?"

"Too bad it was all in your head," Garth said, snickering a little. "No one would let a hot nurse anywhere near _you_." His mouth was twitching into a smile as he drained his coffee mug. "Not with your track record."

"Sounds like you have quite a reputation, Dean," Sam said with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Kid," Garth said, "you got _no _idea."

Dean inwardly cringed. He didn't really regret anything he'd done, but he also didn't fancy the thought of Sam seeing this side of him.

Getting laid as frequently as possible and with as many partners as he could coerce into it had been an outlet for him in this place, a way of feeling wanted when everything around him was so jacked up and unreal. Sex felt real. It felt like being alive, and it did a damn good job of making a person feel cared for, even if for a little while. He guessed he sort of thought that way about it even before coming to the crazy house.

Looking at it through the rose-tinted lenses of Sam's more rigid morality, however...

...he didn't feel proud of it. He wanted to sweep it aside and not allow it to be scrutinized. He didn't want to be judged for it, and he was afraid Sam would look down on him because of it.

"The stories I could tell you..." Garth was saying.

"Nobody wants to hear that shit over breakfast, man, come on," Dean said, sincerely hoping he dropped it. He focused as best as he could on eating and not looking over at Sam in order to gauge his reaction to all this. His appetite was becoming tenuous.

"I dunno," Sam said lazily, "I think I might." Dean glanced up at him and Sam was resting his chin on his hand, regarding him with a placid expression he couldn't read. The subject might be pissing him off or just catching his interest and Dean wouldn't have been able to tell. "You're right," he continued to the table's other occupants, "Dean doesn't say much about himself at all."

"Get used to it, Campbell," Jared said good-naturedly between mouthfuls of toast. "He's one secretive bastard. _And _he cheats at cards."

"I do _not_, you all just suck."

"Did somebody say 'SUCK'?" Pokey asked, manifesting out of nowhere and adding to Dean's aggravation. "Hey Garth, Jared," he nodded as he sat down with a bowl of cereal and stared at Sam.

"Uh, hi," Sam said to him, probably hoping to break the tension. "I'm Sa-"

"Sam," Pokey finished his sentence. "I know. I'm Lew-"

"His name's Pokey," Dean cut in. "Don't let him tell you any different. He's a goddamned liar."

"I don't lie," Pokey said indignantly, putting his glass of orange juice back down before he'd taken take a sip.

"You're doing it right now," Garth hummed.

"Fuckers," Pokey muttered.

"Where's Garnet?" Jared asked him.

"Dunno," Pokey started in on his cereal. "He was gone when I woke up." He crunched through the cornflakes for a minute, looking thoughtful, his eyes drifting back over to Sam and regarding him with an appraising gaze. "You eat already, Campbell? Or are you just trying to watch your girlish figure?"

Dean tensed, hoping Sam didn't take the jibe too badly. He seemed to have a sore spot for 'girl' comments like that. Usually it was about his hair, but sometimes not.

Sam tipped his coffee back, finishing it off, and Dean could see his jaw was slightly set. "I'm out of coffee," he said, getting up.

Dean finished the dregs of his coffee off and said, "Me, too." He took his empty mug and followed Sam back to the corner at the end of the food line that had coffee stuff set up for them. "Hey, what's up?" he said as he caught up to him.

"Nothing."

Sam pulled the lever on the dispenser, pouring coffee into the plain little white ceramic mug.

"Sammy," Dean insisted, "what is it?"

"Nothing, Dean," he responded in an irritated voice.

"Well, it can't be nothing if you're acting bitchy," Dean reasoned, nodding his head at all of Sam.

Pissed off grey eyes flashed at him. "You may think you're trying to help, but you're really not."

Dean shrugged and put his own mug under the nozzle, filling it up. "Just thought maybe what that little shit said got to you."

"Were these the 'friends' you mentioned?" Sam asked shortly, splashing some creamer into his coffee.

"Yeah. Like I said, take them with a grain of salt." Dean poured some milk into his. "They're not bad guys."

Sam stalled at the counter, stirring his java with one of those pointless little plastic straws and giving them a little more time before they returned to the table. "They weren't making up that other stuff either, were they? About you and your exploits?"

Dean frowned and leaned on the counter, staring at the milk and coffee swirling slowly together in his mug. "It isn't as bad as it sounds."

"I fail to see how it could be better than it sounds."

"Sam," Dean started in a terse tone, looking up at him. He quickly felt at a loss of what to say. Sam's grey eyes seemed reserved, maybe a little anxious. "Look, it's got nothing to do with you. All right?"

"Yeah, whatever," he said under his breath as he looked away.

"Sammy," he said shortly, his voice hushed so others nearby couldn't hear so easily. "You're different, you always have been." He made Sam meet his eyes, and tried to get through to him. "You're my _brother_. I need you."

Again, the quality of Sam's expression escaped him as they looked at each other, though it was intense. Perturbed? Relieved? Dammit, he couldn't tell. He never used to have this sort of trouble. He used to be able to read Sammy like a book.

Something struck him then. "Sam, you're not jealous, are you?"

"What?" Sam made an irritated face and looked away, busying himself with adding some sugar to his coffee. "Don't be stupid."

"Oh, thank god that's all it is," Dean said with relief at Sam's reaction. He was back on more familiar ground, now - Sam's evasion techniques were transparent like water.

"I said, that's not-" Sam hissed under his breath.

"Then why are you starting to blush?" he said drolly, with a lift of his eyebrows.

"I'm _not_," Sam denied, shoving him with his shoulder. They were taking too long at the coffee station. It was bound to elicit notice. "Where did you get such an over-inflated ego from?"

"I could show you," Dean said suggestively, "but I doubt you'd want a roomful of witnesses." As expected, he watched the color on Sam's face become more vivid with his teasing.

"Jerk," Sam said, eyes flashing at him.

"Bitch," Dean drawled with a charming smile. He could see he was getting to Sam - their eyes were doing that interlocking thing and everything outside of the two of them was starting to fade into the background.

He really wanted to press his lips against that sullen mouth, and feel it open up for him again. It was such a rush each time it had happened. And last night, especially..._ god_, the way Sam had kissed him when he'd finally given up on fighting this thing between them... it was so _hot_ and he couldn't get it out of his head.

"Dean," Sam said, not for the first time, gaining his attention. His voice sounded slightly rough. "Maybe you shouldn't look at me like that in public."

"Like what?" he asked, just to see how Sam would put it. His eyes flicked up to Sam's and his eyes looked dark.

"Like you're thinking of throwing me up against the counter, the way you threw me up against the wall last night."

"If there was no one here," Dean said in a slightly husky voice, pinning Sam with his eyes, "would you let me?" He was becoming utterly fascinated with Sam again, his reactions and the expressions he was making. It was bringing back the tight, thrumming ache that Sam so easily inspired, which they'd laid to rest not so long ago.

Sam looked away, licking his lips. "I don't know. Maybe."

"I could be done with breakfast," he suggested, desire twining through him insistently. "If you wanna go back to the room?"

"Dean," Sam sounded torn, but Dean loved the way he said his name. "You really think that's a good idea?" He motioned to their table with his eyes. All three of their companions were watching them with interest.

"Aw, nosey bastards," Dean said under his breath. They'd be all over him if they left now. He'd be hearing about it for weeks.

"And not just them," Sam said in a quiet, earnest voice, grabbing his attention. "We have to work this out before it goes any further, don't you think?"

Dean ran his hand through his hair, exercising some self-control. "Yeah, you're right." He was massively jumping the gun, wanting to jump Sam again before they even made sure they were okay with what had happened so far. "Sorry."

"Look, go back to the table and I'll grab a bagel or something, okay?"

Yeah, it would be easier to handle the guys that way, if they didn't return together when he'd jumped up after Sam and they'd spent so long just 'getting coffee'. "Sure. Grab me something extra, would ya?"

Sam shrugged and went to get in line. The cafeteria was starting to fill up fast.

Dean made his way back to the table, one of the guys subtly doing a catcall whistle at him.

"And you say you're not doing him," Jared said, shaking his head as Dean took his seat. "You must be dealing with one serious case of U.S.T. then."

"Says who?" Dean said dismissively. His food had gotten a little cold, but not too bad. Certainly quite edible still.

"Wait," Pokey said in confusion, "what's _'U.S.T._'?"

"Unresolved Sexual Tension," Garnet supplied, announcing his arrival and sliding onto the bench next to Pokey. "Idiot." The lean, 20-something biker looked around the table, with his normal, inexpressive face on. He was wearing a white tanktop, and his long black hair was wet and hung about his shoulders unbound. He was probably just back from the showers. "Who are we talking about? Dean and Campbell?"

Dean shot him an irritated look. "_That _was your first guess?"

Garnet shrugged and reached across the table in front of Pokey to steal the top pancake off of Dean's plate, diminished though it was.

"Dude!" Dean said, throwing his hands up and giving him a _what the hell _look. "What's with this pow-wow anyway?" He glanced around the table accusingly. "I never see all of you in here at once."

"Don't be racist, man," Garnet said, taking a bite of the pancake in his hand. "The white man's kept us down long enough." He was actually joking, in his deadpan way.

"Shut up, thief," Dean said indignantly, lamenting the loss of his hotcake.

"At least I'm not an Indian-giver," Garnet said, dark eyes looking somewhat amused as he ate Dean's pancake, which was dripping a little maple syrup onto the table.

"That's because you gave him shit that wasn't_ yours_, G," Pokey said, still miffed over the loss of his alcohol.

"Stupid," Garnet taunted his roommate. "Do you even know what the term means? It doesn't matter whose it was, but I'd have to take it back or want something in return." The young man shook his head as Pokey spluttered, ribbing him further. "Did your mama drop you on the head as a kid or were you born this way?"

They quibbled back and forth a bit, obviously quite used to doing so.

"Oh, thank god," Dean said as Sam returned to the table. He held his hand out for whatever Sam had decided to grab for him, which happened to be a plate of sausage links. "I'm gonna starve with these vultures around me."

"You don't look like you're gonna starve to me," Garnet commented, blithely stealing a link from the plate before Dean could set it down.

"Goddamnit, get your own food," Dean said in exasperation.

"Too much trouble."

"You can have this," Sam offered, sliding the plate with his toasted, buttered bagel on it in front of the guy.

"Wow, thanks, man," Garnet said with some enthusiasm. He took one half and pushed the plate back to Sam, intending him to eat the other half himself. "You are officially not on my shit list." He glanced at him with tilted eyes. "You're nice, how can you stand being in a room with Winchester?"

"Practice?"

Garnet took a bit of bagel and considered that. "Must be a fast learner," he said astutely. "You haven't been awake that long."

Sam shrugged, wanting to smack himself for his slip up. He had to remember that no one knew they'd grown up together, or that they were family. Here, they had only known each other a short while. He'd have to be more careful around this long-haired guy. He was sharp.

"Name's Garnet," the guy said by way of introduction. He looked part Native American, and sort of young, like they might be around the same age.

"Sam," Sam said.

Garnet nodded sagely.

Sam gave him an assessing look. "Let me guess, you already knew that?"

"You're as sharp as you look," he replied with a slight smile, some of his hair sliding over his shoulder as he bit into the bagel.

"Is there a reason, or does everyone just know about everything in this place?"

"Not everything," Jared chimed in with a wave of his fork. "But it'd be hard not to notice someone who managed to get Dean here all wadded up."

Dean shook his head and rolled his eyes, indicating that was a load of crap. He continued to eat.

"Yeah, we had to suspend our card games on more than one occasion," Garth said regretfully. "Cancelled on account of his temper, or his getting thrown into The Clink for one thing or another."

Garnet snickered. "Good one, man."

Garth nodded, looked pleased with himself.

"I don't get it!" Pokey said to Garnet in irritation. "Why don't you jump on him for using words wrong? We don't have a prison here."

Garnet gave his roommate a long-suffering look. "Because the reference was a joke?" Pokey was still shaking his head looking angry. Garnet elaborated, "The Clink was a notorious prison in England back in the day, owned by the Bishop of Winchester?"

Pokey's expression soured further. "How do you even _know_ things like that? What the hell?"

Garnet shrugged. "I read?"

"All right, ladies," Dean said, wiping his hands on his napkin and tossing it down. "I'll leave you to your knitting circle." He rose to his feet. "I promised to show Campbell that poor excuse for a library we have."

"Sure, eat and run," Jared said, close to done with his own meal. He looked up at Sam. "If you get bored, come and check out the gym. You look like you work out from time to time."

"I'll do that." Sam nodded at them and followed Dean out of the cafeteria.

Jared watched them go, then rested his muscled arms on the table as he regarded each of his mates with a serious expression. "All right, men," he announced, leaning forward, "place your bets."

"You can't be serious," Pokey protested. "We're really betting on _this_?"

"Two weeks," Garth said. "If we're talking the full deal."

"Pfft," Garnet scoffed. "Two days. And it's obvious something happened already, so we're _definitely _talking the full deal."

Jared whistled. "Two days, huh? Feeling conservative?" he joked.

Garnet shrugged. "Yeah, well I saw them up close when they were getting coffee. Seems practically a done deal to me."

"Guys," Pokey tried again. "This is _Dean _we're talking about. Joking aside, I really don't see him going for another dude."

Garnet leaned back with a sigh, tilting his head to the ceiling. "Since you are the only one who can't see it, it's obvious that you're the one who needs to get a clue."

"Just place your bet, Lewis," Jared told him. "Otherwise you're really going to regret your losses."

"No," Pokey stressed. "I'm not betting on this."

"Group rules say you can't pick and choose the bets," the weightlifter reminded him. "You're either in or you're out."

"Dammit," the small man said, looking aggrieved. "Three... weeks?"

"I give it one week," Jared said. "I agree with Garnet, but I also think Campbell's got a stubborn streak in him. Almost as big as the one Winchester's got."

"Agreed," Garth said. "But that's why I'm giving it two."

"I'm telling you guys," Garnet said, shaking his head. "They'll fold before then."

"I am _so _unhappy about this conversation right now," Pokey lamented.

"Shut up, Poke," Garnet said amiably, "Or I'm going to start questioning which one of them you've got a crush on."

"Hm," Garth said, rubbing his stubble covered chin. "That would be a tricky one. Can't be Dean, unless Lewis likes having someone's boot up his ass."

"Gah," the small man said, holding his head in his hands. "Leave me out of this! I put in my bet."

"You shoulda seen him staring at Campbell when he came in," Jared added, joining the bandwagon.

"Because we're always giving Dean shit about having a thing for his roommate," Lewis desperately tried to explain. "I was trying to see if I could see it."

"Uh huh," Jared razzed him. "Looked more like you had some drool running down your chin."

Lewis turned 9 shades of red and spluttered angrily.

Garnet snickered. Pokey was hilarious when he got all indignant and lost the ability to talk in fully formed words. "You know," he said to them all, catching their eyes with the intensity and flair of a house dealer, "a more challenging bet might be who would top."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:** Chapter title from Infected Mushroom - "Slowly"


	16. Bust a Move

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 15: Bust a Move <span>

"So," Sam said quietly as he skimmed the books lining the metal shelving, "this is the library..."

Dean came up to stand next to him. "Told you it wasn't impressive."

"Not as bad as you made it sound, though. There's history, science, modern mechanics-"

"Yeah, read that one." Dean nodded, referring to the book on auto repair.

"What exactly were you looking for, then?" Sam glanced at him, studying his face. "There's some variety here, so it had to be something specific."

Dean shook his head. "I just read through all the stuff that was mildly interesting and ran out." He wasn't ready to bring up the supernatural stuff again, or hear Sam tell him he might be completely off his rocker. So, he wasn't going to mention how he'd scoured the library for books on the topic of ghosts and such.

Grey eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

Dean shrugged off his suspicion. "Why would I lie about that?"

"I don't know," Sam persisted, "but you are."

Dean gave him a gimlet stare. "And how would you know whether I was lying? Your dreams tell you something like that, too?" It was a snotty thing to say, he'd admit. But Sam could be like a freaking bull terrier when he got something in his teeth. He just wanted to throw him off this subject and bypass the whole mess.

Sam rolled his eyes in irritation. "_No_," he said. "I just know. You do this... thing."

"Thing?" Dean said skeptically, raising his eyebrows in an obnoxious manner.

Sam shook his head, trying to put it into words. "You start acting all calm, cool, and nonchalant. And you get kind of obnoxious, sometimes, like people could kiss your ass and you'd be doing _them _a favor."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean said, making a show of looking over the books, though he'd done it countless times before. There was nothing new here.

"See? Just like that," Sam muttered. "You start acting like a dick."

Dean caught at Sam's shoulder, turning him roughly so they were face to face. He glared at his brother. "You got something to say to me?"

"Yeah," Sam said in a harsh whisper, eyes tracking as some other people drifted into the room. He looked back at his brother, like he was willing him to come clean. "Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not lying to you," Dean bit out.

"You're doing it right now," Sam accused him. "Didn't you notice how pissed off I got at you last time you did that shit, or doesn't that register on your scale of things to give a fuck about?"

"Oh, so now you're going to tell me what I do or don't care about?" he challenged him. Now this was getting under his skin - Sam was really dragging out the 'we're not related' lie like a fucking show pony? When Sam _knew_ why he'd had to lie about that, and that Bobby had practically twisted his arm to do it? Not only that, he could barely even stand to_ think_ about how he'd felt when Sam had found out they were related and confronted him over it. It had been horrible. Beyond horrible. He'd felt like his entire world was on the verge of shattering and that he couldn't do anything to stop it. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said, deadly serious, staring back at his brother with hell in his eyes. Sam had some nerve trying to tell him what he didn't give a fuck about, especially _that_.

Sam looked down, unable to hold his gaze. "Sorry," he muttered uncomfortably.

"Forget about it," he said shortly.

Damnit, now he was feeling restless as hell. He was still pissed, and Sam looking like a beaten puppy wasn't really helping. It made him feel like he'd been a dick. Which maybe he had been, but that still didn't mean Sam could get away with saying whatever the hell he felt like. "I'm going over to the gym. I'll see you later."

"Dean," Sam appealed, shooting him a soulful look that was even worse than the abused puppy look.

Dean shook it off and left anyway. He had to. Things were getting confusing. He didn't know how to act. His defenses kept popping up and small things were setting him off. Most of all, he was having trouble in that he didn't know how to classify Sam or how to treat him. He'd never tried being with someone he actually cared about personally. And he'd never cared about anyone as much as he cared about his brother, except maybe his parents. Should he treat him like a brother? Like a lover? Like some freak hybrid of the two? But he couldn't even be sure about the 'lover' thing. He wasn't exactly an expert in relationships that lasted longer than a one night stand.

Damnit, the whole thing was just weird.

And who could he talk to about it? No one.

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling frustrated. Sam was right, they needed to talk. All they had was each other to work this stuff out, but it seemed that all they kept doing is having petty little fights.

Maybe after he worked off some steam at the gym, he could try again. He couldn't blame Sam for getting pissed about being lied to, even though it was for a good reason.

It looked like he wouldn't be able to keep secrets and have things be okay between them. Lies were starting to look like the wedges that could break them apart, no matter how well intended they might be. He'd have to come clean and deal with whatever Sam's reactions were instead of hiding behind misdirection.

He'd have to tell him more about the hunting, about his research, and probably about his time in the mental hospitals.

_Argh, _he thought. _Really not looking forward to that. _

* * *

><p>Sam stayed in the library, sprawled in a chair, brooding.<p>

Today had not been going in any anticipatable fashion. Last night, he was really under the impression that if anyone would have a problem with this thing between him and his brother, it would be himself. Dean, on the other hand, had seemed resigned and accepting for the most part. He'd also been the one to keep pushing the bill and forcing things along.

Anyone would look at his behavior up until last night and figure he was fine with it. Yet today, he'd been going through moods like candy.

Sam leaned his head upon the back of the chair and regarded the ceiling. It was unimpressive.

He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of things. How was it Dean could look like he wanted to avoid him one minute, be mad the next, then somewhere in-between be looking at him like he wanted nothing more than to jump his bones?

It was obvious his brother was having issues.

It was also just as obvious that attempts to talk with him were meeting with a spectacular rate of failure.

He didn't know what to do. It seemed like everything was just getting more complicated. Was giving in to this thing between them actually going to break them apart?

But how could he fight something like this? It hadn't felt wrong when it had just been him and Dean in the heat of moment. He'd succumbed to the temptation of those lips on his and the wet, passionate caresses of that mouth as he sank into it. He hadn't cared about abstract concepts such as wrong or right. He knew what he wanted.

And what he wanted scared him.

He needed to talk to Dean. He couldn't fight this without help.

If Dean didn't put a stop to it... it was going to get so much worse. But what if Dean didn't want to put a stop to it?

He wet his lips unconsciously. It was something they just needed to figure out, and get on the same page with.

_Maybe I should go look for him._

Sam didn't know where the gym was, but that's where Dean had been headed. It was his best bet for finding him at the moment.

He scraped himself up out of the chair and made his way out of the library. The hallway looked about the same on the left as it did on the right. He shrugged and went left. Soon, he'd need to get a better understanding of the layout of this place.

"Campbell?" an authoritative voice said from behind him.

He turned, seeing an orderly. "Yes?"

"Come with me, please," the man who was built like a truck said.

"Uh," Sam said, face twitching into a frown. "Okay..." He didn't want any trouble, so he decided to cooperate. With reluctance, he followed the orderly.

They walked in silence for a good five minutes before Sam asked, "Where are we going?"

"Doc wanted to see you."

"Oh." Well, this was nothing new. Bobby had called for him before. Though he thought it was Dean he'd wanted to see today. Maybe plans changed.

"Through there," the man said, pointing him through a door that looked vaguely familiar.

Sam shrugged, turning the handle, and going inside. He was instantly hit with a chill as he recognized the room to be the infirmary. The pale bluish floor and the dingy quality of light was just like last time. Again, the room seemed empty. He immediately turned on his heel to go right back out again but the way was blocked. "I'm not staying in here," he said shortly. "I'll meet him in his office." This place gave him the creeps.

"You'll wait here," the orderly said, closing the door. "The doctor will be along shortly."

"No," Sam argued, grabbing the handle and pulling against it with all his might. It dragged slowly shut, regardless. "No, damnit!"

Hands closed upon his arms, two orderlies appearing out of nowhere to restrain him and pull him from the door and deeper into the room. He fought their icy hold instinctively, making them practically drag him. "I shouldn't be here," he said. "Why am I here? Hey!"

The orderlies had no distinguishing features other than being incredibly strong. It was almost like they were faceless, living manacles. "The doctor will be along shortly," one of them said tonelessly.

He shivered as the room got colder. He had to be under an air vent or something.

"Samuel," a pleasant voice said from behind him. He was still facing the way out, his back to the rest of the room. "How nice to see you again."

His body went rigid and he looked over his shoulder, vision swimming as he saw the bearded form of Dr. Walter. His teeth clenched and old, ingrained training from long ago told him he did _not _want his back to this man. His feet slid upon the floor as he tried to turn to face him, but the orderlies' grip was unyielding. "Why am I here?" he said again, trying to stay calm. "I didn't do anything."

"Well, that is a matter of perspective," the doctor said with a smile. "You see, Sam _Winchester_, it's not so much what you might have done, though I'm certain there is something; it is more a matter of what you _will_ do... and what you will become." His voice was threatening in the way it was so carefully modulated, the tones light and so evenly paced that it was almost lulling. It was a voice crafted to make other people believe the speaker was harmless or benevolent. It put Sam on edge.

"Dean is a bad influence on you," the doctor continued regretfully, "as was John. They are bad eggs, Samuel." He placed a cool hand upon Sam's forehead, tilting his head back and looking him in the eye. Sam's heart was beating within his chest like a caged thing. "It's in their _blood_, as it is in yours. It is only a matter of time before you sour in your shell, if you haven't already..." His eyes twinkled above his apologetic smile. "It's a family curse," he said simply. "But maybe I can save you."

Sam tried to shake off his hand, but his arms were stretched taut like a clothesline and he couldn't manage it. "You're fucking crazy," he said angrily, seriously getting freaked out by the situation. What was wrong with these orderlies? Couldn't they see this was strange? Why weren't they doing anything?

Dr. Walter chuckled. "Surely you see it, Sam?" He switched to informal address then, as if that would suddenly make him more personable. "Their sickness? Their belief in all that is twisted and dark in the human imagination... it drives them to do things. Horrible things."

"What are you talking about?" he ground out.

His head was rolled playfully side to side by a cold hand as the doctor continued. "Ghosts, werewolves, ghouls... countless things to hunt and kill, in the service of humanity. But did you ever stop to wonder what it would mean if they were killing these things, when they weren't even real? Did you ever stop to think, Samuel, what innocent people were dying at the hands of their delusions?"

Sam was breathing hard, not wanting to hear this. He was feeling sick and yet he couldn't tune it out, couldn't shake the words. It was like his dream, where Dean had killed Gordon, thinking him a monster, when he wasn't a monster at all. "Shut up" he said forcefully. "Shut _up_."

"You know I'm right. You were the smart one. The brains of the family." The cool hand left him and his head drooped to his chest in defeat. He couldn't make the words stop - he was a captive audience. And underneath it all, beneath his anger and frustration, buried under his resistance to listening to this man... was the festering seed of doubt. He could hear the muted click of the doctor's shoes upon the floor as he walked. "A full ride to Stanford. Quite impressive, Samuel. A _lawyer_. What promise you showed the world with your efforts. And yet..." Dr. Walter stepped in front of him and crouched down to meet his eyes. "Here you are." He slowly shook his head back and forth as he regarded Sam. "Following in your family's footsteps, one small push from the edge."

"Why are you saying all of this to me?" Sam rasped. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

"Because I want to help you," the doctor said with an earnest voice that Sam couldn't bring himself to trust. "John, and Dean... they don't want to be helped. They know in their guts that they are right, and nothing will change them. So, they will persist in their sickness, harming others and believing themselves to be martyrs to some higher cause."

"But what if they're right?" Sam said, trying to fight off the lulling cadence of the doctor's voice. "You could be wrong - maybe they aren't delusions at all."

"It pains me to hear you say that, Sammy."

Sam bit into his lip, tasting blood, the mocking sound of the nickname that only his family used ringing in his ears. "Don't call me that," he said in a low voice, a surge of anger rushing through him. The name sounded wrong from the man's mouth, like it was being sullied somehow. How had he even known of it?

"Is it special to you?"

"Stop mocking me," he growled.

The doctor _tsked _at him. "It seems to me that you display the same kind of volatile anger as your brother. That pervasive feeling of being caged, the one you are experiencing even now, is a delusion, Sam. It will only get worse and it isn't even real."

Again with the changes in the way he was addressed. It was confusing. Before, it was always Samuel, Samuel, Samuel. All of a sudden it was Sam, Sammy, Sam, like curve balls, each name having a different feeling, a different meaning to him, and it took him time to adjust.

In a flash, it seemed, Dr. Walter had his head tilted back in an iron grip, a syringe poised at his neck. Panic nearly blinded Sam at the sight of the needle. "No, don't!" His feet slid and kicked but still the needle came closer.

"Relax," the doctor soothed. "This will make it better. You'll be able to deal with the things inside of you." His calm voice was contradicted by the unrelenting hold he had upon Sam and the words that sounded like brainwashing.

"No!_ No!_"

His eyes rolled back in his head as the needle pierced his flesh and nausea welled up almost instantly as his vision started going black.

"You know, Samuel," Dr. Walter said as he took the needle away and Sam's head fell heavily to his chest. Your father was there when your mother died." He paused for effect. "Of course, you could be right in that the things he hunts are real. But what if you're wrong?"

Sam tried to fight off the darkness, but it was overpowering. _Dad..._

"What if..." came the careful, snakelike whisper in his ear, "it was those very delusions that she and your girlfriend died for?"

* * *

><p>"Sammy," a voice called, distorted and weak as it filtered through Sam's consciousness. It pierced him like a knife, feelings welling up in response like a rebellion; fear, doubt, anxiety. "<em>Sam<em>."

Arms slid under his back and lifted him up, making his head roll. He groaned, the nausea creeping up on him again.

"Sam, it's me," the voice said. "Can you hear me? It's Dean."

Sam made an effort to open his eyes. Tension was rattling through him with intensity, pressing in on his chest as he drew short breaths. He saw white - white ceiling, white walls. He was in their room, he gathered, being held upright. Green eyes swam into view, setting off a chain reaction in him. He tried to push away from where he was being held against his brother's chest. Feelings suffocated him; reassurance, safety, desire, and pervasive, paranoid fear.

"Let go," he said in a gravelly voice.

He could feel it now, they were on one of the beds, and Dean was holding him cradled in his arms like he was dying.

His eyes felt so heavy. He couldn't keep them open. And he couldn't make his limbs do much of anything.

"Just sleep it off, Sammy," Dean said quietly, not letting go, soothing him with his familiar voice. "It's okay. It'll be better when you wake up again."

The disjointed feelings of fear subsided and Sam relaxed little by little.

"That's it. Just go to sleep."

* * *

><p>Sam woke up some time later to a dark room. He slid slowly into a sitting position, putting a hand to his head. Dean was asleep next to him, his brows creased in a worried expression.<p>

Last thing he remembered was being in the infirmary. He couldn't really remember why he'd been there, though. His memory was a wash of sickly blue linoleum tile, and claustrophobic anger.

Dean stirred. "Sam?"

"Hey," Sam said, trying to figure out what the weird flashes of fear he kept getting were. They hadn't been there before. It was like when he was remembering the accident with his mom, back when he first got here. There was this feeling of unease, and these disturbing, ominous tremors to his thoughts.

He wasn't afraid of Dean. He knew that, and yet it was almost like he was expecting his brother to do something crazy and violent at any moment. The feeling jumped to the fore as soon as Dean did anything so much as twitch. It wasn't normal. Something was seriously off.

"Sammy, what happened?" Dean was suddenly awake and sitting up next to him. A hand rested upon his shoulder. "When I got back from Bobby's after the gym, you were laying on your bed looking like you were cracked out of your mind."

"I don't know." He pressed a fist into his eyes, seeing a face swimming before him. Twinkling eyes, and a placating, horrid voice.

"Someone gave you something, didn't they?" Dean said with bridled anger. "Who was it?"

"I don't know," Sam said again. "I feel tired, and weird. I just want to sleep."

"But you've been sleeping for over nine hours." Dean said, sounding incredulous.

He shrugged and the effort cost him.

"Never mind," Dean said, making him lay back down. "Just sleep till you're done."

"Sorry," Sam said as his eyes grew heavy, not sure why he was even apologizing.

* * *

><p>Sam was dreaming again. He knew this somehow, a gut feeling, but it was a fleeting knowledge that grew faint and out of reach as he saw bloodied images and familiar faces.<p>

_Dad... Dean..._

He saw them both, dressed in dark clothes, guns in hand, sneaking up upon something in the dark and communicating with hand signals. His dad was wearing Dean's leather jacket. No, not Dean's... he'd seen his father wearing it before, when he was young. _I'd forgotten that was actually Dad's... haven't seen him in so long... _Dean was wearing something else, something like an army jacket, form-fitting and utilitarian. His face was a blank mask, his eyes quick and alert as he loaded something into his gun by feel.

And then the dream was repeating from where it started. Everything was a mess of rapid movements, the ringing of shots, and blood. So much blood.

"Did you get it?" John asked, panting a little.

"Yeah, I got it," Dean said. His face was sprayed in red and his green eyes looked strange - distant - broken.

John trudged over to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, and the look vanished. "Good work, son."

Dean flashed him a smile that wilted on the edges as soon as his father moved past him to the Impala. He stared into the night with a fixed gaze, a frown forming in the smile's place.

"You coming, Dean?" John called out, half in the car.

"Yeah."

Sam watched his brother's face go carefully blank again, and a shrug twitch his shoulders briefly before he turned towards the Impala.

The dream faded and Sam found that he was not where he'd thought he was. He was in bed, but Dean was nowhere around and it wasn't even their room that he was in. Creeping anxiety began to flicker in his chest and in his gut as he recognized the cold, impartial walls of the infirmary.

Pain seared the crook of his arm, making him gasp through clenched teeth, and he saw a syringe sticking into his inner arm, held by firm, cold hands. His head swam as the plunger was depressed, shooting something into his vein little by little, and his stomach turned. He hated needles. _Really_, really hated them. He had worked on controlling his responses to them over the years and no longer reacted with a full panic attack, but he could feel it crawling just underneath the ice of his self-restraint. He was shaking and tension gripped his limbs. His heart was beating a sick cadence in his head. He barely had it in check.

"I'd like you to tell me more," a pleasant voice said as the needle violated his flesh, stinging, _stinging_ within his vein. Sam fought against it and found that he was bound to the bed. Leather straps cuffed his wrists and a band across his chest held him down. "Anything you want. About your father, about Dean... anything at all."

_Fuck you._

"I've been having these dreams." Sam heard himself speak, but the words were disconnected from his thoughts. It was like he was trapped in his own head. He refused to cooperate with doctor Walter who was sitting at his bedside like a vampire, and yet, he couldn't say what he wanted.

"Go on."

"Sometimes they seem so real. Like they _are_ real."

Sam thought his voice sounded flat and almost... trance-like.

"Do you believe them to be?" Dr. Walter asked. He had a pen poised over a notebook, and while his posture seemed relaxed, he gave the impression of being entirely too attentive.

"Maybe," Sam's voice said in even, plodding tones. "But I don't want them to be. They scare me."

"And what do you see?"

"Blood, sometimes. Death. Monsters." His voice hitched and he fell silent.

"But that isn't all, is it, Samuel?" Dr. Walter prodded. "You see yourself, don't you? And your family?"

Sam's teeth ground together. He didn't want to talk about that. He refused to let anything out about the dreams he'd had with him and Dean. He couldn't afford to let the doctor know about the turn their relationship had taken, or the violence he'd seen. He'd incriminate them both. "I... don't want to..."

Gaining control of his own mouth was nearly impossible.

"What do you see?"

"No," Sam fought the doctor's placating, forceful voice. "I won't..."

"You must. You do not have a choice, Samuel. But don't worry, you are safe here."

Sam tried to shake his head, biting his lip against the words that kept trying to spill out.

The doctor's hand alighted upon his brow, smoothing the hair back from his face, making him twitch. He leaned in towards Sam. "Just as stubborn as they were," he mused softly. "But you can't fight the chemicals in your blood forever, Sam. You'll spill your secrets eventually." Sam wanted to shake the man's clinical touch from him and flee his disturbing voice. "But fear not, this will all fade from waking memory soon enough."

Sam felt his perceptions growing hazy and he became less present.

"Tell me about John," the doctor said, switching tracks and leaning back again. He was going for an easier subject, one that Sam wouldn't feel compelled to fight so hard against, so he could get the flow of words going again. "Tell me about how he raised you boys."

"He wasn't around much," Sam's voice answered mechanically. Sam was only marginally aware of it. He felt so tired all of a sudden. "He taught me how to shoot and how to protect myself... but it was mostly just my brother and me. Dean took care of me."

"Did your father tell you what he was doing when he went away?"

"He was hunting..." Sam's voice paused. "He didn't tell me things, like what he was hunting. Dean knew, I think. But he wouldn't tell me either. They didn't tell me much of anything."

"Did you feel helpless, being treated like that? Or did you feel protected?"

"I don't know."

"Why do you think they were keeping secrets from you?"

"I-I don't know," Sam said, frustration creeping into his pale voice.

"Maybe little Sammy was too delicate for such work?" the doctor suggested. "Or was he too like his mother? Too likely to question such behavior, like _she _did, instead of falling in line like a good soldier?"

"Dean," Sam whispered, barely audible. He felt a tear roll from the corner of his eye. How hard it had to have been for him. His brother had always followed his father's every whim, set on making the old man proud. And he'd always had such a harsh, desperate expression on his face when Sam had questioned him on their dad, his training and what they were hunting. _'You don't want to know, Sammy. Trust me.'_

"Yes," Dr. Walter said, "your brother was good at following orders, wasn't he?" He paused as Sam closed his eyes. "Do you think that made your father love him more, or did it just make it more apparent that you were the coddled favorite? How painful that must have been for him. How desperately he must have resented you all of these years."

Pressure clamped down on Sam's chest and he felt like he couldn't breathe. There was nothing actually touching him though, only panic.

"And reunited at last, after you've spent years living a normal life." The doctor _tsked _at him. "I think he's probably ready to drag you into the world he used to protect you from. All the dark, twisted and strange things he's had swirling around in that head of his, the very things that keep him here... he's ready to drown you in them and see if you don't go as crazy as he did."

"_Sammy, wake up!_" a low voice said firmly. It didn't fit in here.

Sam shook his head, misery snaking through him. Did Dean resent him? He could understand it if he did, but...

"Just remember, Samuel, he has blood on his hands," Doctor Walter said. "So much blood."

"_Sam! Wake the hell up, you hear me?_"

Strong hands were shaking him and Sam slowly forced his eyes open. Dean was hovering over him, concern etched onto his face. They were in their room, like before.

_Was I asleep?_

"Jesus, Sam," Dean muttered, sitting back. "Scared the hell out of me."

"What do you mean?" Sam sat up carefully, feeling disoriented. He flexed his hands and looked about the room, trying to establish some sort of reasonable belief that he was actually really awake now.

"You were thrashing in your sleep and your whole body went rigid. It was like you were having an attack or something and I couldn't wake you up."

"Sorry. I think I was dreaming." He looked at Dean. "And maybe I still am. I can't always tell."

"Well," Dean seemed a little at a loss. "Would you dream about this?"

Sam frowned. "About wh-?" his words were cut off as Dean leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth unexpectedly. He honestly didn't know if he would dream something like this or not. Probably, he could, but he was certain he was awake. The soft press of lips upon his was inviting and desire lapped at his lower belly. Trepidation trickled in as well, but as he started to pull back, Dean moved with him. Almost as naturally as breathing, their mouths were parting and meshing, and Dean's hand was resting upon the back of his neck. Fear spiked like a warning, but it was like it wasn't even his own. It was that disembodied emotion that wasn't properly his, and it didn't have enough strength to burn through the mounting desire anyway.

Dean couldn't resent him, could he?

Not like this...

Sam kissed Dean harder, throwing all of his confusion and uncertainty into it, needing to be rid of it somehow. Dean pushed him down onto the bed, his mouth becoming more heated upon Sam's, and Sam did not protest the hand that trailed over his torso exploratively. It was warm and stirred pleasure in him as it stroked down his abdomen. He didn't stop it when it gingerly dropped lower, palming his need.

His hands clenched upon Dean, a moan in his throat.

He didn't know why he wasn't stopping it this time, only that he didn't want to. It didn't seem important just now, not more than the way Dean's hand felt upon him, making his heart speed in his chest and his lungs pump for more air. Clever fingers were working upon his aching flesh, pulling pleasure from his body nearly expertly, as if Dean knew exactly what he liked and how.

Sam knew he should fight it, that he shouldn't let Dean fall prey to this either, but he just couldn't.

He ran his hand down Dean's side tentatively, where his shirt had ridden up. His heart was in his throat as he considered it. He'd never done this before... But Dean's skin was intriguing to his curious fingertips as they traced down smooth contours of muscle and down the curve of his hip.

Dean broke the kiss as Sam stroked the soft skin of his lower belly, his breath catching in his throat. Sam lightly bit his own lip as his hand slipped lower and he touched upon the silken heat of more sensitive skin. It was hard beneath his hand and his face was flushing as Dean shuddered against him.

He started to hesitate, though his compulsion was to go farther out on a limb and discover exactly what his touch was capable of on this part of Dean that was so similar to and yet different from his own. The shape and feel of it, for one, and the length...

Dean's mouth began playing at his throat then, distracting, encouraging, and sharpening the ache in his gut. Not to mention the feeling of the bare skin of Dean's hand upon his own arousal as it moved beneath his waistband of his pants to stroke him.

"Uhn," he groaned, starting to lose his head. Everything was becoming too hot. Dean's mouth on his neck, the way Dean was touching him, and even the way it felt to have Dean's arousal in his own hand. He could feel tension ripple through his brother as he stroked him off, he could hear every change in his breathing, and he was already learning what Dean seemed to react strongest to.

And every reaction his brother gave him was turning him on more, unbearably so. He sought Dean's mouth and sank inside, needing the hot wet heat of it and the passionate slide of their tongues penetrating each other's lips; it seemed fitting, as they clung to each other, hands moving upon desperate flesh. It was an echo of the _'more'_ that he wanted. The 'more' that he was afraid of, yet wanted so badly. He ached unbelievably with the thought of it - with daring to go that far and having Dean's hard length sheathed and thrusting into his own body instead of his hand. He wanted it as much as he feared it.

Climax was jolting ever closer, present in the soft, insistent sounds that remained in the muffled container of their kiss, and the shaking shudder of their bodies.

_No,_ he thought as he panted, _Not 'as much' as I fear it, I want it __**more**__._

Dean tensed against him, going rigid like a tightly strung bow and writhing against his body as release shot through him. _God help me, I want it. _Sam thought desperately as pleasure spiked sharply and he groaned through clenched teeth as he came.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Chapter title from Infected Mushroom - "Bust a Move".


	17. Change the Formality

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 16: Change the Formality <span>

"Sorry," Dean said some time later as they lay there, bodies sprawled next to one another.

"What for?" Sam replied tiredly, thinking he already knew what he was going to say.

"For... well," Dean ran a hand over his hair. "I didn't mean to jump you like that."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I didn't exactly stop you," he pointed out, a little aggravated. Dean was trying to make this about laying blame, and was taking the fault upon himself.

"Yeah, but..."

"But what, Dean?" he said with an edge. "I was aware of what we were doing. I'm not a little kid anymore, so you can stop treating me like one."

Dean flopped onto his back, letting out a noise of irritation. "I'm not treating you like a kid."

Sam sat up and stared down at him. "Yeah, you kinda are. You keep acting like anything that happens is your fault, and that you have to take all the responsibility on your own."

Dean shook his head, a surly expression on his face. "Look, you've got some weird shit riding in your veins, and this was the last thing you needed." His tone was self-deprecating. "Besides, you're the one who said we should talk about this before anything more happened."

"Well, too late for that now," Sam said sarcastically.

"Damnit, Sam," Dean said with frustration, "I'm _sorry_."

"Maybe there's nothing to talk about, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Dean said, his voice wary.

Sam shrugged and laid back on the bed. "Seems like I'm not sorry it happened. Guess I don't have a problem with this after all."

"That's just nuts," Dean said with aggravation, sitting up again. "How can you not have a problem with it? You're_ supposed _to have a problem with it."

"I didn't say it wasn't weird as hell," he tossed back, reacting to his brother's increasingly acerbic tone. "I'm just saying that this will probably happen again and I don't think I'll be trying to stop it." He looked up at Dean. "_You _obviously have a problem with it - though not a big enough one to keep you from jumping my bones. What's the difference?"

"_Because_," Dean stressed in a pissed off fashion, "what the hell are you going to do when you get out of here then? How are you supposed to have a normal life?"

"I already told you I'm not leaving here without you," Sam said angrily. "God, I can't believe we're having a fight about me _not_ having a problem with this. You realize that's mental, right?"

"You may not be a kid anymore," Dean said, "but I'm still supposed to be looking out for you." He made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a growl as he ran his hand angrily over the top of his head, scrubbing at his hair in agitation. "Maybe I'm in here because my self-control is complete shit at times, but I don't want that to drag you down. And I sure as hell don't want you stuck in here, wasting away the rest of your life."

"Do I get a say in this?" Sam asked shortly. "Or are you just going to make up your mind and tell me to 'deal' with it?"

"That's what I should do," Dean muttered. "Only I know you're too fucking stubborn to listen." He glared at Sam. "Don't you see how dangerous this is? How dangerous this place is? You _cannot _stay here. You need to get out the first chance you get and not look back."

Sam shook his head, refusing to back down. He could see that Dean was just trying to push him away and it was beyond frustrating. "And what is there for me out there, huh? You're all I've got."

"I don't know," Dean said with exasperation. "Some nice chick you could hook up with, marry, and do the white-picket fence kinda life with? You could have a dog, 2.5 kids, and a minivan to cart the little bastards around in. You'd love it. You'd be happy."

"Where in the hell do you get this stuff, Dean? I never wanted kids or any of that. Is that the kind of life _you _wanted?"

"It's what everyone wants, right?" Dean said scathingly, ignoring Sam's question. "It's _normal_."

"Is it really what _you_ want?" He asked again, stressing the 'you'. He tried to pick his brother apart with his eyes, and see what was really going on inside that head of his. Could he really picture Dean secretly coveting that normal sort of life? Or was it just the sort of thing he _thought_ he should want?

"It doesn't matter what I want," Dean snapped. "Not here, anyway, and I don't even know if I'll ever be able to leave. So don't fucking ask me something like that."

"I'd pick you over normal any day," Sam said bluntly. "And I'd rather be here than anywhere else because of it."

"_Damnit_, Sammy," Dean exhaled. "But they've already started in on you. You don't need to be medicated; someone's just fucking with your head."

"I can't say I'm thrilled with that," Sam admitted dismissively, trying to get back to the real issue, "but that's besides the point."

"Don't you remember anything about it?" Dean asked him, diverting the subject before he could persist in it. "Where you might have been, or who you saw?"

"Not really." The dream came to mind, but even that had become fuzzy and dissonant. He was mostly left with the impression that he'd been strapped down and interrogated. There was also something about needles; but he could do without dwelling on that.

"Sometimes they give you stuff that makes you forget," Dean mused under his breath.

Sam was struck with a lurching sense of déjà vu. "What was that?" He'd heard this before. From Dean, he was sure. Only he was also sure that this had never really come up before. Could he have dreamed it?

Dean's eyes slanted at him. "The doctors. Or whoever. I think that sometimes they give us things that make us forget. Things that mess with our heads and our memories. I can't prove it though. It isn't anything they should be doing, so it would be hard to expose, them being more thorough about hiding it and all."

"Do you think that happened to you in Solitary?"

"Maybe."

"Just maybe?"

"Well," Dean relented, looking a little twitchy, "Bobby swore he came down there to see me and I don't remember it at all. I think I saw someone else. So either my memory is jacked up or I was hallucinating."

"Can medication make you hallucinate?"

"Dunno. I'm not a doctor. But I imagine it could."

Sam started to look even more focused and animated than before. "So this could even be like the Rosenhan experiment," he said with hushed excitement.

"Come again?"

"You know, the famous study a psychologist ran which he called "On being Sane in Insane Places"?"

Dean shook his head. "Not following."

"He had assistants fake mental illness," Sam settled into his explanation, convinced that anyone would have heard about this and that it was just a matter of mentioning the right details to jog the memory. "Like hearing voices, for example, so that they would be admitted into the hospitals. By the end, in order to leave, they had to admit to having a mental illness and agree to taking anti psychotics as a condition for their release."

"Ok, firstly?" Dean said with an incredulous look, "Where in the hell do you hear about this kind of stuff?"

"Uh, books? The internet?"

Dean shook his head. "I know who I'm calling if I'm ever on a trivia show and am given a lifeline." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Man, if all I have to do to get out of here is admit some kind of mental malfunction, sign me up. Stupid me, I was set on proving I was sane."

"I don't think it will be that simple. You're already taking medication in general, aren't you?"

Dean nodded. "Not much choice there. They watch you take it, and if you don't, they make you take it. No flushing it down the can in this place."

"So they have already identified you as having a problem."

"Sure, they just don't know what it is. And they are either unwilling or unable to believe there's nothing wrong with me."

Sam still wasn't certain if there was anything wrong with his brother or not, but he didn't believe that it was anything that warranted living in this place indefinitely. Even if he was seeing things or was delusional about monsters, it wasn't like he was hurting anyone, right?

He felt a sudden dissonance at the thought, a sort of disagreement to that notion, down to his core. '..._you could be right, in that the things he hunts are real. But what if you're wrong?_'

A frown creased Sam's brow as disembodied words flowed into his mind like water. He couldn't place them. Not where he'd heard them, or who had spoken them. _'What if... it was those very delusions that your mother and your girlfriend died for?'_

"Sam?" Dean said as Sam put a hand to his suddenly throbbing head. The pulses of fear were returning with the thoughts of his mother and her death. So were the impressions of blood. His stomach churned and it was hard to breathe.

"Sam, what is it?" Dean asked urgently. "What's wrong?"

"N-Nothing," he said faintly, pushing aside his brother's bracing hand. "I'm okay."

But he wasn't okay. He was seeing his mother's face again, the useless movement of her mouth and the grim visage of his father. Was it possible that he'd really been there when it happened? Was it... Was it possible that his father had been the one to attack, thinking there was some monster lurking there?

"You're not okay," Dean argued, grabbing his chin and tilting his face up. "You look like you're freaking out. _Talk_ to me, Sammy."

"Dad..." Sam forced out, "he was there when it happened."

Understanding struck Dean's eyes. "When Mom...?"

"Yes. What if he-" Sam broke off, having excessive difficulty voicing his fear. "What if he did it?" His voice fell to a rasping whisper. "What if he killed Mom?"

"Impossible." Dean was adamant. "He _wouldn't_, Sam, there's no way."

"What if he mistook them for something else and thought he was saving me?" He persisted. He had to. He needed to hear Dean discount it and maybe even get pissed at him, tell him it was crazy. The alternative was too much for him to deal with. He could feel that he was shaking with fine tremors as that bloody scene played out in the back of his head where it was still hidden from his eyes. It was worse for not seeing it, for not knowing exactly what had happened.

Dean was silent a moment. "Dad wouldn't make a mistake," he said flatly, a strange quality to his voice. "But what you're saying is something else, though, isn't it? You're asking if he'd lost his grip. Or if he never had a grip to begin with." His hand fell from Sam's shoulder like a wounded dove. "You're asking me if he could have been dangerously insane. You're wondering if I'm the same."

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"Oh, you could be," Dean said in a voice that sounded distant, cold and angry. "I could tell you that he might have been hunting the thing that did it, and was just too late to stop it. But you won't believe that will you? You'll just think to yourself that the old man was crazy and that I am, too."

"Dean," Sam pleaded. He wasn't trying to start a fight, nor was he feeling very stable at the moment. Yet here they were and Dean, his support system, was falling back. He'd never heard his brother sound so inaccessible and remote. It pained him more than he could have thought possible. It was like a switch had flipped and Dean was no longer present, like part of him had shut off, maybe for good.

Dean slid off of the bed, his motions tight and sharp, conveying his anger. "I asked Bobby to change our rooms earlier," he tossed out almost passive aggressively as he went to his own bed and laid down upon it with his back to Sam. "He agreed."

Sam turned his back on Dean as well, the words resonating in him and playing havoc with everything else already going on in his head. He curled in on himself, feeling tears burn at his eyes. He hated fighting with Dean. But this time felt more permanent, more irrevocable and damaging and he didn't know what to do.

* * *

><p>"All right, Garnet," Jared said as they sat in the cafeteria around noontime, "pay up."<p>

"What?" the long-haired boy complained. "Are they still not talking to each other?"

"See for yourself." Jared nodded towards the doorway where Dean was making his entrance. He was walking past the table Sam was sitting at by himself without so much as a flickering glance, beyond his initial marking of Sam's location in the room.

They watched Sam's face as he registered Dean's presence, saw his jaw set in place as he was pointedly ignored, given nothing but Dean's back as he walked right past him to the lunch line.

"Aw, man," Garnet complained again. "What the hell are they doing? Look, Campbell's not even eating anything. It's like he's brooding or something." He wiped his hand over his mouth in exasperation. "Can't they have the decency to shag each other senseless when I've got good money riding on this? What is this teenage angst bullshit?"

"Told you they were both stubborn," Jared said, mocking him as he bit into his sandwich. "Too bad this lasted past your deadline."

Garnet cursed. "I didn't expect them to have a _fight_. That throws everything out of whack."

"This is why I gave it a week," Jared nodded sagely. "Account for the unknown."

"Dick. I hope they're stubborn enough to keep this going all week, then you and your shit-eating grin can fork over to Garth."

"You're such a sore loser," the bodybuilder said pleasantly.

"Bite me."

"Hey, guys," Dean said briefly as he sat down with his tray of food. He did not look particularly sociable, nor did he look like he cared for a response.

"Hey, Dean," Garnet greeted, curbing the urge to steal some fries off of his plate while Dean took a bite out of his cheeseburger. He was pretty sure Winchester was not in a mood anyone should fuck around with. It was kind of amusing that it was probably all due to Campbell. Only it was kind of not funny at all... between the two of them, it looked like Armageddon had begun. It was a pretty heavy atmosphere. "How's things?" he asked, ignoring the look from Jared that was warning him not to try to sway anything into his favor with the bet.

"Peachy," Dean said around his burger. "Couldn't be better."

He sucked at lying sometimes, but Garnet supposed he wasn't too concerned with being authentic at the moment. "So, how's the new roommate working out? I heard they put you back in with Ed. You trying to punish yourself or what?"

The look Dean leveled him over the burger was exceedingly unfriendly. "You think I requested Ed? Do I look like a masochist to you?"

Garnet's eyes flicked between Winchester and Campbell, and he thought, _Yeah_. Instead of voicing such (he wasn't suicidal), he said, "I'm gonna go grab something. Unless you don't mind parting with some fries?"

Dean growled at him, as expected, and he got up to get in line. Waiting was such a pain. It was so much easier to just snag bits of other people's food. But for now, this was fine. Maybe he'd detour to Campbell's table after and see if he could get any info out of him. He was kind of surprised that Dean was leaving him adrift like this, alone, when they'd been so tight before. It had to be one doozy of a fight.

"You've been hitting the gym a lot lately, Dean," Jared said casually. "Something bugging you?"

"Nope," Dean said with a nonchalant lifting of his brows, and took a bite of his burger.

"You're full of shit," the weightlifter said as he regarded the tomato slice that was slipping from his sandwich. He poked it back into place. "Just so we're clear on that."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean grabbed some fries and bit the ends off of them. "Look, if you're going to go all Dear Abby on me, I'd just steer clear, man."

"Moi? And ruin the perfectly wretched personality that's developed on my recently gung-ho gym partner? Why would I do _that_, you lunatic?" He took an enthusiastic bite out of his sandwich just to be obnoxious.

* * *

><p>Sam broodingly drank his coffee, not caring that most people didn't have coffee for lunch. Or <em>only<em> coffee for lunch. He wished it was something stronger, but java was all he had access to.

Dean had been giving him the cold shoulder for two days now and it was wearing him ragged. It made his temper flare to be walked past like he didn't exist, just as much as it made him feel sort of depressed.

They were in separate rooms again and it didn't seem like there was anything that was going to break this stalemate. Meals were mainly the only time he laid eyes on Dean, the only time they could maybe set down and work this out, but his brother seemed perfectly content to act like he'd fallen off the planet.

Seeing him with his buddies only intensified Sam's anger, despair and jealousy to a dagger's point. He seethed with frustration over this. Maybe in a few days he'd finally snap and just walk up to Dean and punch him in his pretty face. It'd be hard to ignore someone who was acquainting you with their fist.

"Heya, Campbell," a deadpan voice greeted, breaking into his thoughts and making him look up. It took Sam a moment, but he recognized one of his brother's buddies, Garnet. Today his long hair was pulled back into a long ponytail that was bound with a dozen small hair-ties all the way down his back. It looked like an OCD art project.

"What do you want?" he said in a level voice, sipping at his coffee moodily.

"Huh," the guy said, sitting down as if he'd been invited. "And you're supposed to be the friendly one."

"Says who?"

"Well, it sure as hell isn't Dean, I'll tell you that."

Sam tensed at the use of his brother's name. He'd figured this was going to be an exercise in fishing for information, but knowing that didn't make it any easier to put up with. "Would you mind? I'd rather be left alone."

"Yeah, I know," Garnet said as he buttered a piece of bread, unconcerned with Sam's tone. "Just like I know you're waiting for me to ask some probing question or other about what's going on between you and Dean."

"There's nothing going on."

"Shut it," Garnet said shortly. "I hate liars." His gaze was sharp as his eyes flicked to Sam's. "You practically flinch each time I say his name. It's disgraceful to lie about something so obvious." He held the buttered chunk of French bread to Sam. "Eat something. You're making yourself look like a besotted teenage girl by refusing food."

Sam took the bread with a scowl on his face. "And how would you know what that looks like?"

Garnet shrugged, setting about buttering his other piece of bread. "I have sisters."

Sam took a bite out of it and chewed without really tasting anything. He glanced over at Dean's table as a sort of unconscious conditioning, and was surprised to find green eyes averting, caught staring. His brows drew together and he focused on the bread. So Dean wasn't completely pretending he didn't exist, only to his face. _What the hell? What's he trying to prove?_

Garnet was sharp and didn't miss the exchange. "What, you thought he suddenly didn't give a rat's ass? He's not that good an actor." He twined some spaghetti onto his fork. "This is bugging him, too. He's a general bitch to be around right now."

"So?" Sam said shortly. "What do I care?" Sam failed to see what purpose Dean's supposed friend had in talking to him like this, acting all buddy-like to him. Was he trying to ferret out an apology? Or was this just a way to see how screwed up all of this was making him? Well, he wasn't sorry - he hadn't done anything to warrant this kind of treatment and he sure as hell wasn't spilling his guts to a stranger, especially not one who had his brother's ear.

"Man, you're being even bitchier than he is." Garnet took a bite of spaghetti and regarded him with a perplexed look as he chewed. "And you seem to have major trust issues, dude."

Sam leaned forward, looking the dark-haired guy in the eyes with an aggressive, disbelieving smile. "You think I should _trust _you? Based on what?"

Garnet gave him an unimpressed look, though he seemed vaguely agitated. "Bad choice of words. I should have said that you're paranoid."

"Suits me just fine. I don't care what you think."

"Yeah? Well you care what Winchester thinks, and right now you are wasting a prime opportunity to make him jealous."

Sam leaned back, frowning at him.

Garnet took a drink from his glass. "I know him pretty well, Campbell, and right now he's jealous as hell just having someone else talking to you."

"If you know him so well, can you tell me why he has such a stick up his ass right now?"

Garnet smiled. "I could speculate... but he is my friend, so that wouldn't be fair to him."

"What if we were both your friends?" Sam said speculatively.

"I smell a bargain on the horizon."

"You're lazy and don't like getting your own food," Sam stated.

"You offering to be my food bitch?"

"Only if you don't call it that."

"Done. Besides, I like you, Campbell. If I didn't, I wouldn't be sitting my ass down over here trying to help you patch things with Winchester. Because then you'd be back at our table where I'd have to suffer you daily." Garnet ate for a minute or two, looking like he was mulling something over. He nodded to himself and said, "Here, take this," holding out a meatball to Sam on his fork.

"Uh..."

Garnet shook his head impatiently, "Hold out your bread, and I'll slap it down on there for you."

"I'm not really hungry," Sam said, even as he did as instructed.

"Yeah, well Winchester doesn't need to know that. Besides, food's really personal with him, and sharing it like this is bound to piss him off."

"He seems plenty pissed off as it is."

"Nah, it's something else. Can't tell if it's a wounded pride thing, or if he just feels like he should keep his distance. I don't suppose you could tell me what the fight was about?"

"No."

"Well, whatever." Garnet motioned to the meatball with a small nod. "Eat up, Sammy."

Sam threw him an annoyed look and dutifully started to eat. Why did everyone like to call him 'Sammy' when they were being condescending? Did they think they were being cute or what?

"Oh, and make sure you don't look over to the other table at all," his companion added. "You need to act utterly focused on being where you're at. That'll knock him down a peg - he won't feel so in control of things then."

"So you're saying that this is easier for him because he's the one doing the ignoring?"

"Precisely. So if you act like you don't give a fuck, **and **make him jealous, he won't be able to stand it. He'll be seeking you out in no time."

Sam made a face. Dean was pretty stubborn. That could take a while. He also thought Garnet was overestimating his brother by thinking he wouldn't be completely pissed off and looking for a fight instead of a resolution. "Yeah, I guess." Then again, depending on Dean's exact reason for ignoring him, ignoring him _back _might just drive him further away.

"Seems like just talking would be easier, doesn't it?" Garnet mused.

"Seems like," he agreed.

"Your old roommate is a stubborn bastard though. So that makes things complicated." He broke off a piece of his bread and popped it into his mouth. "So who'd they stick you with when your room changed?"

"Bernice again."

"Mm," his companion said noncommittally. "Big fucker, isn't he?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't you room with him one time before?"

"Briefly."

"Wonder why they keep jacking your room assignments. Seems weird, doesn't it?"

Sam shrugged.

Motion caught his eye and he looked up as a small, nervous looking man came up to their table. He nodded at both of them, but spoke only to Garnet. "H-Hey, G. Uh, Dean said he wanted t-to talk to you. Um. _Now_."

"Sure, be right over," Garnet said, waving him off. He turned to Sam. "Oh yeah, Winchester's pissed. Took less time than I thought." He continued eating.

"Aren't you going to go over there?"

"Sure, when I'm ready," Garnet said, unconcerned. "Think I'll let him stew for a bit first. 'sides, I'm hungry."

Sam wondered if he had a death wish. Dean could be horribly impatient, especially when he was already torqued off about something. This just seemed like playing the odds in a very fatalistic way.

"By the way," Garnet added. "If he tries to kick my ass, you owe me. More than food duty. Anything I say."

"You're the one antagonizing him, not me."

"And if it gets the job done?" the dark haired guy prompted, giving him a raised eyebrow.

"Well, sure, I guess."

"Good, because he's headed over here right now."

Sam twitched, and forced himself not to look, but tension ran through him like a mean streak. Part of it was anxiety that Dean _would _start a fistfight with his friend, also, Sam had no idea what the Native American looking guy would ask him for when he came to collect.

"Blowing me off, Garnet?" Dean asked casually, ignoring Sam completely. His body looked tight like it was holding in a very volatile temper.

"Naw, man, I'm just eating." Garnet sounded just as casual, but he didn't look nearly as relaxed as before. "I'm hungry."

"And you just thought you'd set up shop over here?"

"Sure. Making new friends and all. It's good from time to time."

"Back off," Dean warned him. "You're barking up the wrong tree."

Garnet pushed his tray back and looked up at Dean with a quizzical tilt to his head. "Just because you're not talking to him doesn't mean no one else can. Or do you have a monopoly on Campbell here?"

Sam desperately wanted to chime in, but he knew he couldn't.

"Go back to the other table," Dean suggested in a low, unfriendly voice.

"Sorry, man, you don't rule me." Garnet said, staring him down. "I like it over here. Sam's fairer company than you are these days anyhow."

It sounded like a taunt. Sam jumped up reflexively, grabbing Dean's arm, knowing instinctively that he was about to strike his friend. Muscles corded beneath his hand, tight with tension as it pulled against his grip. "Let go of me, Sam." It wasn't a request.

"No."

Hard green eyes flashed at him. There were many things contained in that gaze but the foremost was anger. "Protecting your new friend?" he sneered, his expression becoming condescending.

"No," Sam said pointedly, "protecting yours."

They stared at each other in a clashing of wills. Sam hadn't meant his words to imply that Dean could lose it and seriously injure his friend, but that's just how it came out sounding. The accusing light in Dean's eyes cemented that misconception.

"So, now you're protecting people from me?" Dean said in a low voice, which would be a little difficult for anyone to overhear.

Sam got the feeling that this whole falling out was over just that - Dean was taking offense that he could be perceived as dangerous or unstable or even mentally unsound. But just now, he could also see that Dean was jealous.

"I shouldn't have to," Sam said, willing him to see what he was really trying to say; that he trusted Dean, beyond all else, but that Dean needed to exercise restraint and control his impulses, like he used to.

"You know," Dean said to him arrogantly, restrained arm turning so he could catch Sam's shirt roughly in his fist. "This was all so much easier to deal with before _you _came here."

The words were like a strike to the face, Dean's cold green eyes backing them, telling Sam it'd be better if he was gone - if Dean never had to lay eyes on him again. Hurt snaked through him, and before he knew it, he was punching his brother in the face. The feeling of abandonment and desperation crushing his chest drove him forward and he struck Dean again causing his brother's hold on his shirt to loosen. _You say that to me _now_?_ He was beyond words. They echoed in his head, but with no outlet. _How could you say something like that to me __**at all**__? _It was like Dean was trying to cut him out of his life completely. Cutting him off from the only thing that held any meaning to him anymore.

And Dean wasn't even properly fighting back. He was blocking now, sure, but Sam was getting blows past his defenses that he shouldn't have been able to land. Dean's body bowed as Sam drove his knee into his brother's midsection and when those eyes met his, he could nearly hear the words they held. _'Do this and get out of my sight. I never want to see you again.'_

Sam's breath shuddered in his chest and his eyes stung.

Was this it? He'd lost his brother completely? Lost the person who'd cared so much about him, being left only with this animosity? Was he really supposed to just turn his back and leave him in this place forever?

Rough arms looped through his, dragging him back and making him struggle. "That's enough, Campbell," an orderly said. "We're done here."

"Dean," Sam said through clenched teeth, making his brother look up at him. "Even if you turn your back on me," he said tightly, tears ghosting his vision and touching his voice, "I will _not _abandon you."

Green eyes flickered, a war going on inside them.

It was the last thing Sam saw as he was dragged away.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Chapter title from:

**Infected Mushroom - "Change the Formality"**

I try to chaAange the for-mal-ity  
>and everything about it..<br>People killing people for a reaaason..

You make mistakes,  
>you don't regret..<p>

So make a conclusionnnn.

[x6]

**A/N2: **And the B-side to this chapter is the following song, which I see as being sort of from Dean's p.o.v.:

**"Showdown" - Pendulum **

Well it's been such a long time coming  
>I thought you'd understand<br>That's over  
>Ahead of the lines<br>You'll be joining in the sand

Is it simple?  
>You were wrong<br>You must have known that we live down below

I know you thought I'd sold my soul  
>But you never told me to my face<br>I just had to leave you go  
>Blow this shit away!<p>

Here we go again...


	18. Nothing Comes Easy

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 17: Nothing Comes Easy<span>

"Oh, Samuel," Dr. Walter's pleasant voice said ruefully, "you'd think you _wanted _to see me, what with the trouble you keep tumbling into so easily."

Sam cursed his luck that he was taken to the infirmary to see Dr. Creep-factor. He couldn't put his finger on it but Dr. Walter gave him a bad feeling and he did _not _fancy spending time in his presence. Not to mention this place, and its tendency to be frigid. "Eat me," he said tersely. Antagonism was rising to the surface even though the bearded man had yet to say anything truly deserving. It was weird.

He was sitting in a chair, the doctor walking around him in a slow, assessing circuit. "So rude, today," he mused, not looking offended at all. At least, his trademark pleasantry was unaffected. "And starting fights?" He _tsked_. "That's disappointing behavior."

"You can skip the lecture."

"Then would you rather hold out your arm for me?" He patted his pocket threateningly, and Sam knew somehow that a syringe lay inside. His jaw clenched. "I thought so," the doctor continued. "Your charming little fear seems to be beyond your control." He smiled. "There are only two options, Samuel: talk therapy or medication. I'd prefer the former, but the decision, ultimately, is yours."

Sam thought that sounded like crap. This guy seemed to have an over-fondness for medication.

"Now," Dr. Walter continued, eyes glittering ominously behind his professional facade, "I'd like you to tell me about your brother."

* * *

><p>Dean couldn't get it of his head, the expression Sam had made before he'd been hauled out of the cafeteria... it was crushing. Not to mention the words he'd uttered.<p>

He put a hand over his face, fighting off the wash of self-deprecation and worthlessness which was overtaking his pride. He knew he was hurting Sam by ignoring him, and by everything else, but he just couldn't reconcile things to his satisfaction. That Sam could have such doubts about their father... and about him! They were dangerous? Unstable? Insane? Such judgments ripped out his sense of self and invalidated who he'd been for almost his whole life. He felt like he suddenly couldn't rely on his own mind anymore, if Sam was maybe right about this.

And if his brother was right... it was all the more reason Sam needed to be gone from here, away from _him_.

But he just couldn't entirely trust such an assessment. He didn't_ feel _crazy. He was just here on a string of bad luck. But regardless, if Sam saw him as mentally unstable, he just couldn't stand that. It made him feel betrayed.

"Are you going to make a move or are we going to sit here all damn day?" Garnet said, prompting Dean to play a card.

Dean threw one down without acknowledging him. He didn't even feel like being here right now, but it was preferable to being pestered by Ed in his room.

"Is he ignoring me now?" the biker asked Garth, who was sitting next to him. "Really?"

"Looks that way," the older man said under his breath, seeming like he didn't want to get involved or make things worse.

Pokey was a silent, nervous wreck. He was usually Dean's first choice for aggressive stress relief. He wasn't going to be caught making a peep.

"_You _were the one starting shit with his girlfriend," Jared said to Garnet admonishingly, devoid of his usual cheer.

Dean looked up at him with a sharp glare.

Jared gave him a hard, unrepentant stare back. "You gonna pick a fight with me, Winchester?" the weightlifter asked in a hostile tone. "I'm all for it, but you won't be any less pissed off, just more broken."

"Not any more than you would be."

"That may be true." Jared tossed a card down like he was swatting a fly. "But you'll still be pissed and still be having the same damn issue with Sam. It wouldn't change anything."

"I know," he said sharply. He knew that better than anyone. Still, hearing Sam jokingly referred to as his girlfriend was getting under his skin. It was because of the drama going on between them. It was just making light of it, trying to break a bit of tension, that much was obvious... but it was too close to other landmines, such as how he and Sam had been steadily taking things too far and becoming too involved.

"You think they took him to Solitary?" Garth asked.

"For a first offense?" Jared said with raised brows.

"Second," Garnet corrected. "He was in trouble for that other fight in the cafeteria, even though he didn't start it."

"But I saw them taking him the other way," Pokey said uncertainly, still afraid to speak up. "To the infirmary."

Something in Dean froze up and dread lapped at the edges of his mind. _Why there? _Sam hadn't been injured. He didn't have a scratch. "Lewis," Dean said carefully, eyes boring holes through the pile of cards on the table, "are you sure that's where he was taken?" He couldn't shake this sudden anxiety.

"Pretty sure," the small man said. "There's nothing else that way, and I saw them with my own eyes."

"I forfeit," Dean said, placing his cards on the table and rising to his feet. "I'll settle up later."

"Where are you going?" Jared asked.

Dean didn't hear him as he left the library. He couldn't shake the feeling that Sam was in some sort of trouble. Was he wrong for trying to push him away and encourage him to leave this place? Was he only causing more trouble?

Because of him, Sam was in trouble for fighting. Again. It wasn't the kind of thing they could afford if Sam was going to be getting out of here. They might start medicating him, aggressively, even. And some of those drugs did things to your brain, could alter who you were. He didn't want them to start working on his brother, 'fixing' him. Sam needed to remain as he was.

Fight or no, he wasn't going to let anything happen to his little brother, not while he still drew breath.

He made it to the infirmary in record time, flinging the door open like he was going to break the hinges. His eyes scanned the room in a harsh, broad sweep and, at first, the entire place looked abandoned.

"Looking for your brother, Dean?" a pleasant voice inquired.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he placed Dr. Walter in the back of the room, sitting at the computer desk, tapping a pencil against his lip thoughtfully.

"I'm looking for Sam Campbell," Dean said. "Where is he?"

The doctor looked at him with a smug, assessing gaze. "Why do you refuse to call him what he is, Dean? Is it so hard to admit that he's family?" He smiled and added, "A Winchester?"

"What would you know about it?" Dean said hostilely.

"Quite a lot, actually." The bearded man swiveled slightly in his chair as Dean approached. His eyes looked like they contained secrets.

"That so?" Dean was feeling highly unfriendly.

"Sammy responds well to therapy. You'd almost say that with the right impetus, he could become quite a different person."

"What did you do?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean," the doctor chided softly with a knowing smile. "You know that a professional cannot discuss the intimates of treatment with an outsider."

_I'm not an outsider, I'm his brother, _he wanted to say. He bit his tongue. This was what the prick wanted him to say, what he wanted him to admit. "Where is he?"

"In his room. Resting." Dr. Walter rose from his seat slowly, like a hulking Leviathan. Menace lurked beyond the pleasant facade. He was like a puppet, motored by something more sinister than human hands. "He said an interesting thing to me before our time was up."

"Yeah? What's that?" Dean sneered.

"He's under the impression that your father is coming. Soon."

"You can't possibly believe he'd know something like that." He scoffed but he was feeling uneasy. What kind of pressure had this guy applied to Sam to make him begin to crack?

The doctor's smile was nearly as beatific as it was condescending. "Why shouldn't I? He wasn't lying. And there were so many interesting things he had to tell me. Poor thing, they must have been so bottled up inside of him."

Dean ground his teeth, itching to do something to this asshole. He held back, however, knowing how such an affront might go. He couldn't afford Solitary or the psychiatric medication equivalent to an enema to flush his brain. He needed to be present and see what the hell was going on with Sam.

"I especially look forward to meeting John again. It's been an age."

"Sam's in his room?" Dean interrupted. This situation was becoming too surreal.

"Of course. Though I'm not sure he'll be wanting to see you." The bearded man sounded contrite, though it was like he was laughing on the inside. "What use does he have for someone unstable like you? You're just going to drag him down, Dean. Just like your father dragged both of you down. You'll infect him with your sickness and trap him here."

"Shut up," Dean spat. "You don't know anything."

A smug smile greeted him in response. "Think what you like, if it makes you feel better."

"Dick," Dean said, turning on his heel and stalking out of the room, the clinical smell clinging to his nostrils.

He beelined for Sam's room and tried the door. It was unlocked. He swung it open and saw his brother lying upon his bed, curled up and facing the wall.

"Sam," he said, sitting on the bed and reaching out to shake his shoulder. Sam's eyes were open, but glassy. He didn't look right. "_Sam_." His grey eyes stared sightlessly, fixed upon only something he could see. He shrunk from Dean's touch, though his expression didn't change, and his lips moved in a silent approximation of speech.

Worry shot through Dean and he levered Sam up into a sitting position, bracing him against his chest so he could better assess things. His brother's body was shaking slightly. His hands were cold.

"I'm sorry," Sam's voice finally manifested faintly.

Dean chewed the inside of his lip. He didn't know what was wrong or what he could do. It seemed like every time he turned around, he was unable to do anything for Sam, like he couldn't keep him safe. How many times was he going to see his brother like this, his mind suppressed by whatever cocktail he'd been given at someone's whim? "What are you apologizing for?"

Dean ran a hand over Sam's smooth cheek. His head lolled alarmingly, and a tear loosed itself from the corner of one of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sam repeated in an anguished whisper as his eyes squeezed shut. "Don't leave me."

_Was he this upset over our fight? _Or was it something else? Or maybe it was just the drugs talking?

"Nobody is leaving you," Dean reassured him. He wasn't certain, but he got the feeling that Sam wasn't even hearing him. Like they weren't even in the same dimension.

"I didn't mean for you to die," Sam words nearly overlapped his, "Mom, Jess. I didn't _know_."

It startled Dean a moment, that Sam was talking about something so different than he'd thought. He'd sort of assumed Sam had been stuck on the fight between them, not on the accident. There was an instant spark of jealousy and self-deprecation that flashed through him at the realization. On its heels was guilt.

"Sammy, look at me," Dean said sharply. This was too painful, seeing Sam so out of alignment like this, hearing his voice sound so tormented. He couldn't take it. "_Look _at me." Unfocused grey eyes, drifted slowly to meet his. Whatever medication they'd given him was strong. "It wasn't your fault, okay? You weren't the one who did this and you couldn't have known enough to prevent it."

_Why can I never protect him? Everything I do is futile._

"Dad was there. No one else. It had to be him." Sam rambled murkily. "It's all my fault. They died because of me." His eyes grew sharper, finally really seeing Dean again, and became all the more anguished for it. "Why do you always defend him?" his voice carried a tone of disbelief. "Can't you see what he did? And what he did to _you_?"

The last words shot through Dean's chest like a lance. '_Can't you see what he did to you?' _

"He didn't do anything, Sam. Nothing." It felt like a lie. He could still feel the kick of a gun in his hands as a child and the misgiving that chased nearly every kill shot. He could feel again the tremors that had wracked his body the first time hot blood had sprayed him. The only thing that had kept him together was the thought that they were saving people. That and in the back of his mind, he was grateful that Sammy was not involved to this extent. Not yet, at least. Secretly, he'd wondered what it would do to his brother.

"You aren't supposed to be in here," a deep voice said from behind him.

Dean turned around to see the epically super-sized man that was Sam's roommate looking down on him. The shaved-headed man looked more than a little unfriendly and marked their close contact with a critical gaze.

"Mom said you're just like him," Sam was saying, and Dean felt dread fill his veins. Sam knew better than to mention their connection aloud. What the hell was he on that he would throw caution to the wind like this?

"Winchester," Bernice threatened in his gravelly voice. "OUT."

Dean didn't want to leave Sam, especially when he was like this, but it didn't seem like he had a choice. His adversary was huge and he didn't see a way to avoid having his spine ripped out if he were to engage in a one-on-one with him.

"Alright, alright, Nancy-boy," he drawled, giving himself an extra second or two, "I'm goin'." He lay Sam back down on the bed and watched him curl up like a pillbug, sheets to his chest. "Sam, I'll come check on you later." Right about now, he was really regretting having the rooming assignments changed. It seemed like every time they did that, though it seemed the best option at the time, it ended up being damn inconvenient. It was ironic in a way that was really fucking annoying.

"Please don't," Sam said in a muffled voice.

"What?" He frowned in confusion. "Why the hell not?"

"Just leave me alone."

Dean's frown deepened. Was it just him, or was Sam sounding more clear and coherent as he was telling him to fuck off? "I'll be back later," he reiterated. It could be that Sam was remembering their fight _now_. But why the change in attitude? He'd seemed like he wanted to make up before, even when Sam was driving a knee into his stomach with righteous indignation. What had Dr. Walter done to his head? Keeping his distance had seemed like a good idea to Dean before, a way to force his brother out of this place and save him, but now? Sam was on the fast track to becoming a permanent resident whether Dean was with him or not. If that was the case, sticking close would be the only way to minimize the damage.

A rough hand at the back of Dean's neck reminded him that he was supposed to be making himself scarce.

"Hey," he said harshly, trying to shrug off the large man's grip. "Hands off." He was ignored and shoveled right out the door. It closed behind him with finality, and the whole thing irritated Dean greatly. Shrugging his shoulders as if ridding himself of the lingering feel of Sam's bouncer, he set off down the hall, shoving his hands into his pockets.

_I'll just have to talk to Bobby, _he thought.

He'd get the rooms switched back, and by god, Dean knew better now than to bother with getting them separated. He wouldn't make the mistake again. This place was just waiting to eat Sam alive, he didn't need to offer it his assistance.

* * *

><p>Gaining Bobby's ear was harder than he thought.<p>

For one, Dr. Singer had become a hard one to pin down. Seemed he was having emergencies with patients every other minute for the next several days. Two, even when Dean had gotten within range, Bobby looked less than happy to see him, and even less so when he got a word out about changing their rooms back.

"Boy, what do you take me for?" the psychiatrist said gruffly as he shrugged into his white coat, getting ready to see one of his patients that had spontaneously started freaking out. "You think I have nothing better to do than play 'Trading Places' and pull strings for you every damn minute?"

"I swear I won't ask you to do it again." Dean tried to give a credible smile as he blocked the doctor's path to his office door.

"Out of my way," Bobby said shortly, "I have something important to attend to."

"What is it this time? Someone suffering from uncontrollable dancing leading to life-threatening dehydration?"

"No, you idiot, parapsychotic delusions which have turned violent."

"Just say 'yes'," Dean bargained, "and I'll get out of your way."

Dr. Singer gave him a sharp look that was akin to the slicing of a scalpel. "We're done here." He pushed past Dean and said, "Don't come into my office again unless you are called for."

Not used to such abrasiveness from Bobby, Dean gave way. It was disconcerting to see him act so differently. The older man was practically his only ally here. He hated getting on his bad side, but he'd been getting desperate. He'd had zero access to his brother between Sam's infrequent ventures outside his room the last few days and Bernice's looming form guarding him like a wild bear. Even when he'd caught sight of Sam in the cafeteria at odd times of day, he'd been blocked from getting close, and Sam wasn't deigning to acknowledge his existence.

"_Damn it_," he swore, running a hand through his hair in frustration as a scowl marred his face.

* * *

><p>"Sam," an orderly said at the doorway to his room.<p>

"Yeah?" Sam looked up from where he was laying upon his bed listlessly. He hadn't felt like doing much the last several days, let alone thinking, but that's just what he'd been doing the most of. There was, after all, a lot to think about.

"Come with me, please."

"Where to?" Sam said in a bored tone, staring at the ceiling with his hands beneath his head. He didn't feel like getting up, and he definitely didn't feel like being herded around like a piece of beef on two legs.

"Mr. Campbell, maybe it would be better if you would just cooperate."

"Maybe _you _can just bite me," he offered unhelpfully. Sam supposed he was feeling less than cooperative these days.

"What's the problem?" Someone asked from just outside of the room.

The orderly turned to the person who was not yet visible, and said something back that Sam couldn't quite make out.

"I'll take care of it," the more strident voice said and the orderly moved to make way for another orderly whom Sam had seen before. He had dark, curly hair pulled back into a low ponytail and piercing blue eyes. He also had a look about him that just about screamed _'I'd love to break your arms, or all the bones in your body.' _"Campbell," he said sharply. "Singer's office. Now. You have a visitor."

If Sam hadn't felt more compelled to listen to the new, more brawny orderly by threatening looks alone, he might have gone just out of sheer curiosity. "A visitor?"

"You heard me, buttercup," the man all but growled. "Now get your ass in gear."

"Sure," Sam said shortly.

_Who the hell would be visiting __**me**__? _Nobody even knows I'm here.

He scraped himself off the bed, the surly orderly practically tapping his foot with impatience. The two of them led the way and the combined width of their shoulders was almost freakishly impressive. He recognized the dark-haired one now. He'd made Dean look downright small as he'd carried him in from solitary, nearly unconscious, and dumped him onto his bed like a downed buck. The other one, Sam still didn't know. He was an older guy with shortish sandy-colored hair. Looked a little like an aged Luke Skywalker.

Sam's jaw set as he thought of Dean, and he resolved to put his brother out of his head.

The walk through the halls was not overly long, but it felt like it as more people than usual seemed to be staring at him.

He was starting to get quite a reputation here. First, he came in as a vegetable, asleep for the first part of his stay here. Then he was getting into fights beside Dean (who was infamous in his own right) and then into fights _with _Dean. If they had been anyone else, maybe they wouldn't have been watched so closely, but the other patients seemed to like keeping tabs on his brother and so now that had extended to him. He was sure it looked odd that they had been seen going practically everywhere together, really seeming to get along, and then all of a sudden they were having a shit-storm of dramatic bullcrap between them.

They reached Dr. Singer's office and the acerbic, blue-eyed orderly ushered him inside and shut the door behind him.

"Bobby?" Sam said, seeing the occupied chair at his desk. When it turned so that it was facing him, however, the person in it was not Bobby at all.

"Heya, Sammy," the dark-haired man greeted with a crooked half smile.

Shock coursed through Sam as he regarded the familiar stranger. He couldn't be sure, but...

"Dad?" he said uncertainly.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:** Chapter title from the song **"Nothing Comes Easy" by Infected Mushroom**. On the flip side, here is another song that I find to be fitting - "Self vs Self" by Pendulum (love them). The band In Flames has some awesomeness too. My favorite song of theirs (besides this one) is the remix of Cloud Connected, called _"Club Connected"_. Wow. (It's on youtube, so you have no excuse not to check it out!)

**"Self vs Self" - Pendulum**  
><strong>(feat. In Flames)<strong>

_If I struggle a lifetime_  
><em>What would my body be?<em>  
><em>An empty shell<em>  
><em>On what a demon fed!<em>

_Could be a heavy burden_  
><em>To stay true to your words!<em>  
><em>Speak up!<em>  
><em>I wanna silence everything!<em>

_If I got no plan_  
><em>Doesn't mean that I get what I want for free.<em>  
><em>If I got no meaning,<em>  
><em>Would you force me to a place where I make sense,<em>  
><em>'Cause nothing lasts forever...<em>

_How do I get home?_  
><em>Everything revolves around me!<em>  
><em>If I can't find myself?<em>  
><em>It's so completely fake!<em>

_How do I get home?_  
><em>Everything revolves around me!<em>  
><em>If even you can't help?<em>  
><em>Dark nights on my soul!<em>

_I deny failure!_  
><em>I ignite!<em>  
><em>Woe is on my misery,<em>  
><em>She wins all their eyes!<em>

_Realize what defies our fate!_  
><em>This is not me, this is me!<em>  
><em>So if I struggle a lifetime<em>  
><em>What good would that do?<em>

_If I got a plan_  
><em>Doesn't have to stop the feeling inside.<em>  
><em>If I do make sense,<em>  
><em>Would you drag me down,<em>  
><em>'Cause nothing lasts forever...<em>

_How do I get home?_  
><em>Everything revolves around me!<em>  
><em>If I can't find myself?<em>  
><em>It's so completely fake!<em>

_How do I get home?_  
><em>Everything revolves around me!<em>  
><em>If even you can't help?<em>  
><em>Dark nights on my soul!<em>


	19. Before

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 18: Before<span>

"Dad?" Sam asked, not able to quite believe it.

"In the flesh," the man responded in an off-handedly joking way that reminded him a little of Dean.

"What are you doing here?" Sam said abruptly. "Where's Dr. Singer?" He couldn't help that seeing his father was not exactly inspiring warm fuzzies. He felt on guard. Suspicious. He couldn't forget the sight of his father's face the day of the accident. He looked just the same today, aside from a different expression; the same slightly greying hair, the same creases about the eyes and corners of his mouth that in most people usually indicate the person was, or had been a smiler. So his dad _had _to have been there - it couldn't all be in his head, he hadn't even seen him in over 10 years; how would he have been able to anticipate exactly what he would look like?

His father put his hands upon the desk with a sigh and stood up. "Dr. Singer thought it best that we meet alone so that we could really talk."

"Right," Sam said, not sure if he believed it. Weren't shrinks supposed to be all about listening in on people's private thoughts and conversations so they could figure those people out? See what made them tick? Would Bobby really have just vacated the premises out of consideration? "What did you want to talk about?" Sam said, his voice sounding kind of confrontational.

His father frowned at him. "I wanted to know how you were doing."

Sam gestured to the building around him. "I'm just great. Thanks for holing me up in a mental hospital." His lips twisted into a sardonic smile as he regarded his father. "Really makes a guy feel the paternal love."

"This was a miscalculation," John Winchester said with regret.

"Come again?" Sam asked incredulously. His father stepped out from behind the desk and began to pace. What the hell kind of miscalculation could he possibly pass this off on so calmly?

"The note I left in your pocket?" John prompted in his gruff voice. "They tell you about that?"

"Sure."

"I gave you that so you could find your brother," the older man said. "I'd suspected you would have wanted to before, but Mary was against it.." (_...while she was alive.)_He shook his head and frowned. "I never meant for you to get stuck in here."

_'Before'? _Sam pushed the other thoughts aside, except for that one, which were crowding up on him with nearly every word his father uttered. "You make it sound like you'd been talking to her after you'd split up."

"Yeah, we'd spoken a few times afterwards. Mostly about you boys. She was very protective of you. And she liked to keep tabs on Dean - see how he was, what he was up to, even _where _he was, so she could keep you from looking him up."

"Why would she do that?" Sam's brows were drawn together so hard it almost hurt. "Why was she so against it?"

"You know why, Sam," John sighed and his stern, dark gaze averted. He covered it by picking up and inspecting a paperweight off of the psychologist's desk. "She was afraid of him being a bad influence on you."

"So she thought I should spend the rest of my life acting like I didn't have a _brother_?" Sam said angrily. "That's screwed up!"

"I'm sorry." John's delivery was abbreviated and he sounded sort of distant. Flat. "I didn't agree with it, but I had to respect her wishes while she was alive."

The same words that had lain unspoken before, now cast a pall upon the air. At another time, it might have inspired only sadness, but just now it was anger that steeled Sam's resolve to uncover what his father wasn't telling him.

"Yeah, about that," Sam said harshly. John could be as emotionally detached and distant as he liked, but now that he was _here_, Sam wanted some answers. He had to know how his mom and girlfriend had died. "What in the hell happened out there? Why were you _**there**_?"

John's face became closed and he said simply, "Don't you worry about that." He paused a moment before adding, "It's enough that I was able to bring you back safe."

The elder Winchester was being about as emotional as a brick wall. With spikes. He was pacing again, his hands clasped behind his back.

"How am I supposed to **not** worry about it?" Sam pressed with frustration. This couldn't be the end of it, there had to be more - he had to know more. What was his father not telling him? "I dream about it all the time, yet I still don't know what happened. I just see _blood_, mom, Jess... and you."

"I said don't worry about it," John said sharply. "End of discussion."

"Whatever," Sam said scathingly. He turned on his heel and stalked towards the door.

"I'll be in town for a few days," John said after him before Sam slammed the door in his face.

* * *

><p>Sam was pissed as he stalked out of Dr. Singer's office. How dare his father just show up here, acting like he cared, then spouting nothing but the same kind of evasive bullshit he always did! You would think that by now, his father might see him as an adult, someone who could be leveled with, but instead it was just like it was back when he was 10, or even younger.<p>

_'Don't you worry about that.'_

God, that man pissed him off!

_Did he really think that I would be able to let this go? I practically saw mom and Jess murdered in front of me!_

All he could think about as his thoughts raced was that maybe the reason John wouldn't level with him is because he'd had a hand in it. And, if that was the case, Sam wasn't sure what he would do. It was his own father, but... the rage that surged up in response to that scenario was violent, territorial, vindictive.

His first instinct was to seek out his brother. He'd want to know that their father was here. But more than that... Sam wanted to lay this all out, see what Dean thought of it. Vent. Hear his level, steady words that were like the voice of reason. Maybe Dean'd see through all this anger and be able to tell him why he had it all wrong. He'd find a way to dismantle it.

Sam expelled a breath, his insides churning as he remembered their fight and how things weren't right between them.

It was a stupid reason to go talk to Dean, anyway. They weren't exactly on the best of terms right now. What would be the point of finding him, baring his soul, and then having to deal with the smack in the face he'd get when Dean acted like he didn't give a fuck? He couldn't stand the thought of seeing his face being closed off and impassive again, so different from how expressive it normally was. He hated seeing those green eyes of his being as cold as chips of glass.

He'd been mulling it over, and he still wasn't sure what was going on with his brother.

Actually, he'd been trying _not_ to think of it, but he'd been impressively unsuccessful. Dean was acting like he could drop dead for all he cared. Yet, it was inconsistent. _Why would Dean keep an eye on me when he thought I wasn't looking, then? _Like in the cafeteria before their fight. _And why would he show up in my room, after I'd been freaking out on the medication I'd been given?_

Sam ground his teeth together. It seemed like every time they dosed him, it fucked with his head, making him remember the 'accident'. On top of that it was swirling those nightmare images together with feelings of fear and memories of his strange upbringing. It was like everything got scrambled and he couldn't keep track of timelines, events, or how he felt about what. Several times now, thoughts of his own family had been accompanied by dread and terror. _Dean's _face had inspired panic.

But given time, those things faded away, more familiar thought processes resumed, and he was left with nothing but bewilderment as to why he'd acted strangely or had thought the things he had at the time.

Was that really just the medicine? And what was its purpose? Because it certainly didn't do anything to calm him down or to feel less agitated or aggressive. It didn't do _anything _to help him feel better. It was more like suffering from a fit of vertigo in a small, pitch black room with water rising up to your knees and higher. Claustrophobic panic while his head was floating off of his shoulders, and the only thing keeping him grounded was visceral fear.

He sort of vaguely remembered being in the infirmary and sitting in a chair. He'd been talking to a doctor...

_Ugh_, the details were hazy. Like a mirror under inches of disturbed water, his memories had small bits of clarity between the ripples, but the rest was elusive. He had a sense of things having happened but just couldn't say _what_.

_Think, Sam._He tried to clear his mind, and to stop trying so hard to see it. The dreams he'd had lately often featured the same face, the same doctor. A friendly, deceptive face clothed in a beard, twinkling eyes... He chewed lightly at the inside of his lip. He'd met the man before... in the infirmary, just as he was starting to hack the computer in the back of the room. Yeah, he could almost see the nametag as a blast of cool air had raised the hair on his arms. Dr. Wal... something.

In his dreams, the doctor practically interrogated him. He'd seemed oddly interested in the Winchesters. And Sam found it strange that even the first time he'd seen the doctor, the man had known that Campbell was not his true name. Somehow he'd known that Sam was a Winchester, and that Dean was his brother.

_Dr. Walter._

It came to him suddenly. That was the doctor's name. He wondered briefly if Dean knew anything about him. He couldn't remember his brother mentioning the man, but then Dean was not exactly talkative about things like that. And if Dean had ever been a patient of his, he probably wouldn't be forthcoming about it. Still, if they ever got to speaking again soon, he'd have to ask him about it. He didn't trust everything his dreams showed him or what they seemed to indicate, but he didn't rule them out either. He took them with a grain of salt and tried to see what the real world had to show him about those things. So far, he'd been batting 1,000 when it came to Dean. Yet, his dreams said nothing about their current predicament. They were mostly centered on Dean's past, Dean's time here, and only a little bit regarding the two of them.

He sighed in agitation. If he ever _was _trying to stay committed, he could always mention "psychic dreams" to the doctors. That was probably a sure thing to ensure his extended stay here. That could easily be what Dean meant by 'give them one little thing to poke at'. Hell, he hadn't even come close to mentioning anything like that and he was already being medicated. 'Course, he was seeing a correlation between getting into physical confrontations and having them pump meds into his system... he should probably try really hard not to get into any more fights.

Thinking on that last fight with Dean still bothered him. So many emotions had been hurtling through him, making his head spin. There was the white hot anger as his fist connected with Dean's cheekbone, as he tried to reason with him in the only way that was left. Then there was the sickness as he hit him again, and drove a knee into his abdomen, the frustration. And finally, as Dean regarded him with dismissive eyes, there was the coldness and anxiety and the sense of having overstepped his bounds by a mile - the sense that he'd taken it for granted that Dean wanted him around. The weight of it was crushing. He chose to shove it aside, to try and get through to Dean one last time. _'I'll never abandon you,'_he'd said. And he meant it. But how painful a thing that was, to never abandon someone yet receiving nothing but their turned back and disregard.

But again, that didn't match up with his brother's behavior at all times. When he was drugged up this last time, Dean had been with him, concerned. Sam could still feel his strong arm across his back as he'd been held upright, and the way his soothing voice belied how rattled he was.

In the end, he couldn't take it. Dean was a contradiction he couldn't wrap his head around in that state. Positive feelings warred with negative ones, and the synthetic fear that danced in his veins was confusing things further. Dean's caring just then was all the more painful for how different he'd been during their fight, so disdainful and cold. What was real? What wasn't?

Ultimately, it didn't matter. Even if they never spoke again, or if his brother really had abandoned him... He gritted his teeth. He'd made a promise and he would get Dean out of here if it was the last thing he did. No matter what he had to do, he would do _that _at least.

* * *

><p>That night, after dinner and watching Sam with his bodyguard by his side the entire time, Dean finally got his chance.<p>

He followed his brother through the halls at a distance and the behemoth parted from him as they passed the room they shared. Sam went inside, and the hulking mass of his roommate continued down the hall. Dean waited a little while, then turned the knob. It was unlocked. Lucky him.

"Forget something?" Sam asked, not looking up at first and mistaking him for his roommate.

"Nope," Dean replied as he skulked into the room, shutting the door behind him.

Sam dropped the book he was reading, in surprise. His eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"For starters, you can drop the attitude," he said crossly.

"Kind of hypocritical of you, don't you think?"

Dean shook his head in an angry jerk. "Why are you avoiding me?"

"That should be overwhelmingly obvious." Disdain colored Sam's voice like a rainbow. "Get out."

"No."

Sam was starting to look like he was ready to brawl. That jaw of his was setting stubbornly and his lips compressed angrily into what always tended to look like a childish pout.

Dean stood over him as he sat on the bed, glaring. "I heard you had a visitor."

"So?"

"Who was it?"

"It's not important," his brother said dismissively.

"It was dad, wasn't it?"

Sam let out a humorless laugh. "What makes you so sure?"

"The way you look like you're chewing nails just thinking about it." Dean took a chance and sat down on the bed. "I remember that expression of yours coming out when you and dad were in disagreement. You hated that you could never win with him, no matter what you did."

"Sometimes it really irritates me that you know things like that."

"Tough."

Sam looked like he wanted to kick him off of the bed, literally. "He won't tell me what happened," his brother said stiffly. "He was _there_, Dean. He as good as confirmed it."

Dean wasn't sure what to say. He was certain his father had his reasons, but it seemed kind of cruel to keep Sam in the dark like this. He'd ask Dad himself, if he got a chance. He was rather curious as well, not to mention slightly suspicious. What if Sam had a point with thinking their dad was still round the bend? God, it was so hard to make a call on this one. And what if the 'accident' actually_ was _an accident only one where their father had played an active role? Sam wouldn't be able to forgive him.

"I don't trust him," Sam muttered under his breath.

"What else did he say?" Dean couldn't help asking. It had been eating at him a little that his father had never once tried to contact him in any way the last few years. But now that he was here, maybe he'd said _something_? At least to his brother. "Anything about me?"

Sam didn't answer right away. In truth, he was debating what he would tell Dean, if anything. He was still pissed at him, and Dean obviously still held a grudge as well, but he didn't feel right slamming his brother over the head with the nasty truth - that their mother had shunned him to such a degree and had been adamant about them never seeing each other again. He felt weird enough about it, while being the 'protected' one. He couldn't imagine how Dean would feel, finding out he was the 'threat' their mother perceived. "No. Nothing."

Dean felt his stomach drop. _Nothing? Not a damn thing?_ After all this time, his father couldn't even utter a single 'How's Dean doing?' or 'Say hi for me'? "I see." _But what the hell was I expecting? _He realized belatedly that he had, in fact, had his hopes up. It made him feel weak, and that would have made him angry if he hadn't felt so damn empty.

Sam bit the inside of his lip hard as he saw all traces of expression fall from his brother's face, and his chest felt compressed. He'd seen this song and dance before - this was hitting Dean hard. Had he made the wrong call? "I was in there barely 10 minutes. He didn't really get a chance to say much of anything."

"Stop it," Dean said, rising to his feet like a wounded man. "I don't need you trying to make me feel better," he lashed out. "It's pathetic."

Okay, maybe it was more like a wounded_ animal _than a man.

"Suit yourself," Sam said in a surly tone, taking offense. "No one's twisting your arm to be here." Why did his brother insist on throwing even small kindnesses back in his face like this? It really got under his skin.

"I know," Dean said shortly before letting himself out.

* * *

><p>"Sam," Bobby said later the next day, leaning back into his chair and leveling Sam with a piercing gaze. "I think you know why I called you into my office."<p>

Sam nodded, irritation etched upon his face.

"I think it would be in your best interest to speak to your father. He's come a long way to see you."

"We talked," Sam said shortly. "I'm good."

"_Boy_," Bobby grated, "I didn't even have enough time to get a cup of c_offee _and you were already gone." He sounded about as aggravated as Sam felt. "The least you could do is listen to him for more than 5 minutes."

"Listen to him?" Sam's eyes whipped up. "I spent the first half of my _life _doing nothing **but **listening to him! Only that's pretty ironic, considering he never actually _tells _me anything."

"And just what is it that you think he should be telling you?" The psychiatrist's voice regained a calm professional tone as he raised his brow.

All of a sudden, Sam was aware again of Bobby's status and the dynamic at work here. He was Dr. Robert Singer and Sam was technically a patient; not one that had given him much reason to treat him, but a patient nonetheless. And the doctor was on guard now, seeing if there was something to be sussed out, to be 'poked' at (as Dean had described it). His professionalism had slid over him like a mask. He was now in the mode of doing his job, seeing if there was, in fact, something inside of Sam that needed treated.

Sam hesitated. Now was the time that he could lay out that bit about the dreams, if he felt that was the right hand to play, and he could mention something about his dad's 'hunting', and let that ousting stick in his craw. He could. It might very well get both himself _and _his father stuck here for a time. It seemed fitting, somehow.

Yet... that wouldn't do anything to get Dean out of here, or himself for that matter.

What did he really wish to accomplish? That was the question. Did he need to give the doctors something to treat in order to remain here? Or would that be signing his life away? And what was his father trying to accomplish? How could he act without knowing what his old man was planning?

"Sammy," his father's voice came seemingly out of nowhere, and then John was stepping into the room from behind a sectioned off area with books. "I want you to hear me out."

It surprised the hell out of Sam and he scowled. "Well, we can't always have what we want, can we?" he said darkly.

Had this man done it? Caused his world to spin off of its axis? First, with the deaths of the two people closest to him. Then, with reuniting him with his brother - only to make him struggle with a twisted relationship he never could have even imagined before coming here. If he and Dean had met on the outside, wouldn't they be doing something normal like having a beer together while they caught up on each other's lives? Wouldn't illicit passion and damning kisses have been off the menu?

If Jessica had still been alive and with him, would it ever have even crossed his mind?

"Sam," Bobby said sharply. "Quit being difficult."

Sam's jaw clenched and the muscles in his cheeks worked as he bit down. _Difficult? _Bobby didn't know the half of what was going on. But how could he?

"I understand that you and your brother have been at each other's throats lately," John said.

"Something like that," Sam muttered. It was none of his father's damn business.

"What's going on between you two?"

Sam felt his hackles raise. He wasn't telling his father shit. "We've been fighting." His tone turned mocking, "I guess this place wears on a person's nerves after a while."

"You and Dean never fight."

Sam kicked his head back and laughed. "What, we aren't allowed to? It's normal sibling stuff, isn't it? I'd say we were long overdue."

John Winchester stared his son down, his keen eyes dissecting everything. "It's normal for other people, maybe, but not you two. You were too tightly knit."

"Well, it seems we may have grown apart in the last 10 years or so," Sam said sardonically. He really resented that time. He wanted to hate his mother for it, but it felt wrong with her being dead and all, so he lay some blame upon his father. Sam failed to see why John had caved to his ex-wife's wishes at the expense of his children's well-being anyhow.

"Maybe so," John relented, "but I know how important he is to you."

"No. You don't."

His father's face got a sort of stubborn look to it and his eyes narrowed. He switched tacts, "You don't belong here, Sam. That's why I've come. To get you out."

Sam was taken aback. Who in their right mind would voice their master plan right in front of the authorities? He glanced at Dr. Singer, expecting to see some sort of reaction to what his father was saying, but there was none.

He looked back to the elder Winchester. "What about Dean? You're not concerned with him?" John stared back at him, stoic as hell. Sam's stomach dropped out as his father said nothing. "You're just going to leave him here?" It was unthinkable. Horrifying, really, that something like this was not hitting his dad's give-a-crap radar. Was there something wrong with him? Like, seriously, more than 'just a little cuckoo' wrong? He looked to Bobby for backup. Surely he would be in agreement that this was messed up.

"I agree with your father, Sam," Dr. Singer said, discretely tapping a pencil upon the edge of his desk. "You don't really need to be at Oak Grove or anywhere like it."

"Says who?" They thought he was mentally sound? That seemed like a joke. A really bad one. Especially lately.

"Says the psychiatrist," Bobby said sarcastically. "There's nothing wrong with you, boy. Nothing more is going on inside your noggin than any normal person's. I'm sorry, but you're just not certifiable." He paused, likely feeling the irony of apologizing to someone for breaking the news to them that they were sane, and added, "This is a _good _thing. A lot of people would give their right arm to hear me telling this to them."

"I'd like to take you home," his father said. "Let you get your feet back under you after all that's happened."

"But Dean-"

"Your brother will be fine," John interrupted. "He's been here a while. He's used to it."

"No, he won't be," Sam argued. "The longer he stays here, the worse he's going to get. I've seen it even in the time I've been here. This place is making him crazy."

"Sam," Dr. Singer broke in. "If that was indeed the case, how would your staying here help him? From a professional standpoint, he's gotten worse since _you _came here."

_Me? _Sam's breath caught in his throat and his heart started pounding in his head.

"His behavior has become erratic at best, and at times he's quite antisocial and violent," Dr. Singer said. "It could be that your presence here is actually impeding his recovery."

"You're saying it's my fault?"

"It does appear that way." The psychiatrist looked mildly apologetic.

"Listen, Sam," John said. "It looks like the best option is to get you a clean bill of health-"

"So says the previous nutcase," Sam cut in unkindly.

"-and work on Dean after that," John finished determinedly, his face set into a stony mask. His eyes flicked to Dr. Singer as if assessing his reaction to Sam's comment. "It's not like you'd be abandoning him. You can always visit, like I'm doing now."

"Right." Sam was feeling exceedingly hostile and agitated at the moment. "So I suppose that this isn't the first time you've been here, then? That you've come to see Dean quite a lot over the years?" He knew this wasn't the case. He'd seen it in Dean's reaction before. He doubted his father had _ever _visited his eldest son the entire time he'd been committed.

John Winchester frowned and looked like he wanted to escalate this into a verbal sparring match. He still seemed to think that he could bully him around like he was a little kid. He wouldn't though, not with the shrink keeping watch on the sidelines, cataloguing everything like a damn supercomputer. "That doesn't have any relevance to what I'm telling you."

Sam rolled his eyes and made sure his father saw it. "Why, because I'm not you, and I can actually choose to make it a priority to visit Dean, unlike you?"

"Watch your tone," John warned, ignoring the bigger issue of what he'd actually _said_.

"I _am _watching my tone," he responded snottily, glaring at him point-blank.

This nearly made his father lose his cool in front of the doctor. Nearly. "What you always failed to see, Sammy," he said tightly, "is the bigger picture. To you, nothing exists unless you have **seen** it, _verified_ it with your own senses." His eyes bored holes into his son. "And it isn't just the issue you have with authority, or with taking orders, it's this dismissive stance you take on _anything _you have to take on faith."

His dad was talking about their upbringing. He'd always been one to question orders and directives, whereas Dean had simply done as he was told. He knew it infuriated his father at times. He also knew it was a product of his curiosity, intelligence, and... well... stubbornness.

He also got the feeling that his father was referring to hunting, because hadn't Dean said something similar to him? He'd never seen the monsters, so they didn't really seem real to him. It was all too easy to write his brother and father off as being a bit touched in the head. It made more sense to him from where he was standing. This was one of the things Dean had been so pissed over, and probably still was.

Sam frowned, mulling that over. Was that a big part of their last fight? Dean resented him for his acceptance in the event that Dean was a little crazy. He didn't want acceptance, though, did he...? He wanted Sam to believe, no, to _know _that he was sane.

"Sam?" Dr. Singer prompted gently, nudging him out of his reverie.

"Sorry," he said distractedly. "I was just thinking."

As much as it irked him to even consider this... maybe his father had a point. Maybe. At least where Dean was concerned. It was possible that he'd been causing his brother pain all this time with his ignorant acceptance. Here he'd thought that he'd been taking all of this well, and that he was being mature and loyal in taking Dean as-is, when really he'd been feeding into the same things many of the doctors here did - dismissing someone as mental without thoroughly assessing them.

So did Bobby have a point as well? Was his presence here a detriment to his brother's clean bill of health? Had he derailed everything just by being brought here? It was a sobering thought. One he didn't much like.

"Uh, dad," he said awkwardly, his voice sounding gutted, so much softer and reconciliatory it was than before. It almost dropped out and he had to clear his throat a little. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

John's body language eased, becoming less like a taut bow string. "I think that is something we should talk about," he said, the subtle evasions rising up like red flags to his son. Sam looked up at him with a schooled expression and verified with a brief look into his eyes that the evasions were not for him, but for the doctor. "Such as a timeline, living arrangements, your schooling," he said. It was all mundane, trivial, and was all for Bobby's benefit. These were not the things they would be discussing at all, if they were given the chance to meet in private.

"Bobby," Sam said reluctantly, "do you mind if I uh... take you up on that offer of talking to my dad in private? I let my temper get to me before and I wasn't appreciating what you were trying to do." He paused, averting his eyes to stare at the floor. "I'm, uh... sorry."

"Alright," Dr. Singer said with a heavy sigh, sounding like he'd just weathered a battle. "Can I trust you two to maintain civility and not kill each other?"

"Sure," Sam said in a cowed tone.

John nodded his own agreement.

After Dr. Singer left the office, Sam said, "Do you really think that it will help Dean get out of here faster if I leave?"

"It seems that way," the elder Winchester said. "I've been keeping track of things and it seems he had been improving since being put in Dr. Singer's care. He's a respectable man. It's a surprise to find one of those in psychiatry, in my experience."

"Dad, why haven't you come to see Dean?" Sam asked, hoping beyond hope that his father might level with him this time.

"It's complicated."

Sam felt the irritation surge instantly, the moment he was denied. He tried to reign it in and keep his voice level. "Surely there is _something _you can tell me? Anything at all?"

John looked about as tight-lipped as ever. "There are things that are just better left unknown," he maintained.

Sam felt like he was going to blow a gasket. The spirit of cooperation was crumbling almost as fast as it had been formed.

"However," John said, "I can tell you that there may be someone here that is out to make our lives as difficult as he can."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I have reason to believe there's a doctor here, one that I encountered while I was in the state hospital-"

"You mean, while you were committed?"

"Yes," John said, and it seemed that admitting it directly was a hit to his pride. "He was the reason I was there for so long, I'm certain."

"Elaborate?"

"Well," John said, his face squinting into a frown, "I don't know his true motive, but this was one strange man; he took an intense interest in 'hunting' and he also seemed fond of liberal applications of medication. He'd asked me about the hunting several times, probably having read Mary's written statement about me. I didn't talk about it though. When he became my doctor, I suddenly found myself getting dosed a lot and my memory went to hell. In that time, he was questioning me, applying drugs to make my tongue loosen, and drugs to make me forget. It's mostly bits and pieces but I guess that it took some time for him to refine his craft... but I know he discovered a lot about what hunters do, what we hunt, and even a lot about our family."

"That's... highly disturbing." Sam felt something in him twitch in recognition. He'd undergone something like that, hadn't he? It was what he'd dreamed about... and what he couldn't quite remember. "If he had you on lock-down, how did you ever get out?"

"The family genes have blessed me with a cunning mind." He flashed Sam a low-watt, shady smile.

Sam rolled his eyes, and scoffed in amusement despite himself. That sounded like something Dean would say. Over the last many years, father and son seemed to have developed a co-morbid sense of humor.

"Ok," John continued, "to make a long story short: I did what I had to, acted out, and got transferred under another specialist. Basically when they re-diagnosed me, I got out from under his thumb. Under another doctor's care, I played the sane game until I convinced them I was no longer worth keeping under observation."

"So you acted like you didn't believe in any of the stuff you taught me and Dean about as we were growing up?"

"Exactly. For what isn't real to them, makes you insane by default."

"_I'm _not convinced you're sane," Sam tossed out.

"Yes, well, you were living with your mother after all." He smiled lightly and a small wink flickered at his eye.

"That isn't funny."

"It's a little funny," John said, the corner of his mouth quirking upward again, half-heartedly. "Besides, it's true. She had over 10 years to mold you to her liking. You're just as headstrong and closed-minded as she was."

"Gee, thanks, dad," Sam said drolly.

The humor left his father's face, replaced by the stern, immobile expression Sam was more familiar with. "You wanted me to take off the kid gloves, to treat you like an adult and level with you. Don't bitch about it now just because you don't like something you hear."

"You know," Sam said pointedly, bristling at his father's suddenly hard-as-nails tone, "tact isn't exclusively a childlike trait." It wouldn't hurt for him to employ a little of it while talking to him 'on an adult level'.

"Screw tact, it's practically all lies anyway," John said dismissively. He fixed Sam with an assessing look which said he was cutting to the chase, "Listen, Sam, have you been receiving medication of any kind while you've been here?"

"Well, I hadn't been," Sam said slowly, startled into answering without contest, "but recently... uh... sort of, yes."

"Dammit," John cursed distractedly. "It's always harder to get out once they've started a regimen."

"No, it isn't like that. It's been more like isolated incidents."

"Come again?" John gave him the evil eye. "What did you do?"

"There were some fights," he admitted reluctantly, reminded suddenly of when he was 12 and had to break the news to his aghast mother that he'd been suspended for fighting. He'd still been having issues over his parents splitting, and of missing his brother terribly when the bullying had escalated. He'd finally snapped and given them a reason to leave him alone. She grounded him for 3 weeks, with no TV, no time outside, and had made him clean parts of the house in any spare time he had when he wasn't studying. It had royally sucked. But if he had the chance to do it over, he would have done the same. Some things couldn't be settled peacefully. His mother didn't seem to understand that.

"Dammit, son, you can _not_ draw attention to yourself here! These places are like Chinese finger traps - easy to get into and a pain in the ass to get back out of. Plus, if that doctor **is **here, you'll be making yourself an easy target. You're protected somewhat by the name Campbell, but honestly, he might have gotten Mary's maiden name from me and he might even remember it."

"And what about Dean? He doesn't have any protection at all."

"Part of why I never visited. Look, if that doctor ever got Dean under his thumb, he'd have access to all sorts of information, including anything he and I discussed. He's a real bastard - sneaky, too. I have no doubt he'd look for a way to try and entrap me here."

"That sounds paranoid."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"Dean hasn't mentioned any evil doctors. I don't think you have to worry."

"You're assuming he'd talk about it? Or even remember it?"

Sam shrugged.

"Oh," John sighed. "Well, you haven't been here long, you wouldn't understand." He shook his head dismissively. "Our time is probably about up. Listen, just try to stay out of trouble and keep from getting things put on your record. No fighting. And keep some distance between you and your brother so things can settle out."

"Sure, I'll try."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **As an aside, the good doctor seems to be fond of something like Roofies! LOL. I just saw the movie The Hangover on TV and the memory loss was reminiscent. Haha. (That movie was pretty funny, btw. Crazy too.)

**A/N 2: **Chapter title from the song "Before" by Infected Mushroom. Companion song is "Propane Nightmares" by Pendulum, another great band.

I was debating switching titles to be from Pendulum, instead of just Inf Mush, but... consistency can be a good thing. Plus, the Mushroom music really feels like background music you would hear while watching a show if the show was this fic. To me, anyway. And I mostly write to Inf Mush so it seems more fitting to use titles of songs that were a part of chapter construction.

But Pendulum has played a part as well... so I have to show them some love.

**"Propane Nightmares" - Pendulum**  
><em><br>__Something's tearing me down__  
><em>_And I can't help but feel it's coming from you__  
><em>_She's a gunshot bride__  
><em>_With a trigger cries__  
><em>_I just wonder what we've gotten ourselves into__In a trail of fire I know we will be free again__  
><em>_In the end we will be one__  
><em>_In a trail of fire I'll burn before you bury me__  
><em>_Set your sights for the sun__Mind is willing__  
><em>_Soul remains__  
><em>_This woman cannot be saved__  
><em>_From the drawn into the fire__Mind is willing__  
><em>_Soul remains__  
><em>_This woman cannot be saved__  
><em>_From the drawn into the fire__Anything to__  
><em>_Bring it on home__  
><em>_Bring it on home__  
><em>_Bring it on home__  
><em>_Bring it on home__Much too weak to jump yourself__  
><em>_Heal the wounds or crack the shell__  
><em>_Lift yourself from once below__Much too weak to jump yourself__  
><em>_Heal the wounds or crack the shell__  
><em>_Lift yourself from once below__Praise the anger__  
><em>_Bring it on home__  
><em>_Bring it on home__  
><em>_Bring it on home__  
><em>_Bring it on home__In a trail of fire I know we will be free again__  
><em>_In the end we will be one__  
><em>_In a trail of fire I'll burn before you bury me__  
><em>_Set your sights for the sun__  
><em>_Bring it on home_


	20. Heavy Weight

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

**A/N: **My beta is still chronically busy, so in the spirit of moving things along, I've decided to push out updates without that final proofing. Please bear with any glaring mistakes, typos, etc. if they exist. Thank you to everyone who is reviewing! Much love.

***Disclaimer*** I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 19: Heavy Weight<span>

"Hey, Dean," Ed, his indefatigably annoying roommate was saying one night as they sat on their respective beds during some down time, "what's eating you?"

"Nothing."

"You sure? You seem... moody."

"You want to see moody?" Dean asked amiably before his tone did a swift 180. "How about you _shut the hell up_," he snarled, forcibly at the last.

Ed flinched, a startled frown falling onto his face. Dean promptly ignored him and went back to reading a magazine on motorcycles. Not that he was being terribly successful; he was in one hell of a mood. It was because of Sam. But that was no real surprise, was it? All roads led to Sam. At least, they seemed to for him.

Damn it. Ed calling him moody really pissed him off.

Couldn't the kid mind his own damn business?

"Deaaaaan," a voice called from the doorway.

Garnet.

Dean rolled his eyes heavenward. "What?" he ground out.

"Terrifying someone to death is bad karma, man," the long-haired Native American looking biker said as he sauntered through the doorway with a bland nod towards Ed.

"Bite me."

"Stop hiding in here all damn day. You're inflicting boredom on me."

"Like I care."

Garnet let out a long-suffering sigh. "Ed, leave," he commanded sharply.

Ed nodded and scrambled out of the room.

"Dean, man, sometimes I have a hard time believing this is you."

"What do you mean?" Dean muttered, flipping a page, a perpetual scowl on his face.

"This," Garnet gestured at him. "You."

Dean shrugged.

Garnet leaned in to peer at him from about a foot away. "How in the hell did Campbell manage to get you so wadded up? It's unreal."

Dean didn't feel like talking about Sam, so he didn't say anything at all. Garnet was bound to get tired of being ignored and would eventually leave him alone. It had been almost three days now since he and Sam had sort-of talked, and he'd honestly thought that something might have changed. But if anything, his brother was ignoring him even harder than before. He'd pushed the issue once, trying to at least get Sam to acknowledge his existence, and he'd been summarily dismissed with a swatting arm and a cold glare.

Everything else aside, he was dying to know what was going on with his father and brother and their little visitations. He knew they were speaking and yet neither of them was speaking to _him_. And it made him seethe that his father didn't find it worth his time to even fucking acknowledge he had another son in here.

He felt like he was losing his grip.

Sam, his sanity, and his family... it seemed he was losing them all at once and there was not a **_damn _**thing he could do about it.

"Dean, for crissakes," Garnet said, "go talk to him."

"I think you saw how well that went last time," Dean responded blandly. And who could have missed it? It was in the freaking cafeteria, and a ton of people had gotten an eyeful. Frustration and anger still boiled in his veins every time he thought of it.

Garnet flopped down on the bed. Dean gave him an unimpressed look with a raised brow.

"Location, location, location," his friend said.

"You think that would change anything?" Dean shook his head almost ruefully. "You're wrong."

"Gah!" Garnet growled in frustration, sounding almost as emotive as a normal person. "The both of you are so fucking stubborn! I'd swear you were **related** or something. I've never seen anyone else like _either _of you."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Fuck you," Garnet muttered, his voice fading back into its typical deadpan tones, though he still looked put-upon. He shoved his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. "I lost a bet because of you."

The glossy pages of the magazine crinkled as Dean turned them. "What on?" He wasn't really interested, but being around Garnet was forcing him out of his surliness and he was starting to answer on automatic pilot.

"When you two would finally bone each other."

"That's sweet of you, really," Dean said drolly. He wished he could have been surprised by such a revelation, but he just really wasn't. He supposed he knew his buddies too well not to expect a bet of that sort being afoot.

"Your stupid fight screwed me."

"That must have been so painful for you."

"Yeah, it bent me right over and-"

"Am I interrupting something?" Jared said, poking his head in.

"No," Dean said blandly, as Garnet said, "Yes."

"Well, if the two of you are finished with your slumber party, you might want to head over to the library. I hear there is a group that used to play cards there sometimes. You know, before one of them became a royal pain in the ass."

"Aw, you can't kick Lewis out," Dean said facetiously, making no move to get up. "Where would the little runt have left to go?"

Jared walked fully into the room. "Garnet. Out."

Garnet heaved a sigh and slid off of the bed. It was too much trouble to argue. "Yessir," he said and gave the bodybuilder a sarcastic salute.

Once he'd gone, Jared stood over Dean like a menacing shadow. "You know you're being a pain in the ass, right?"

"Yeah, whatever," Dean agreed.

"Can't you at least _try _to give a fuck about anything?" Jared asked with what passed for concern with him. "We're down one man at cards, which throws everything off, and I personally am coming down with severe illness every time I see you mooning over Campbell."

"Oh, fuck you," Dean said in annoyance. "Why does everyone think this is about him?"

"Because it probably is."

"I have other shit going on, too. Do I need to go all emo on your asses and spill my guts just to get that across? You need me to broadcast my issues for them to exist?"

"Don't be a bitch," Jared said, shoving him aside and sitting on the bed. "And you've been plenty emo the last several days. It's freaking me out."

"Look," Dean said with irritation, "I'm sorry I haven't come by the gym and I left you hanging. I just don't feel like doing much of anything right now."

"I know," Jared said. "Which is exactly why I'm here to make you do _something_."

"Tell you what," Dean offered. "I could put my foot up your ass for that bet you started?"

"Me?" the shaved-headed man looked offended. "What makes you think I'm the instigator?"

Dean gave him baleful glare. "Because I know you."

"Okay, fine," Jared said, shrugging and losing the offended look altogether. "It was me."

"You're a dick. Why do you think I'd want to jump him anyway?" He held up the magazine and displayed a photo of a model in a skimpy bikini leaning against a Harley. "This is more my speed, if you hadn't noticed."

Jared raised an appreciative eyebrow. "I hear ya, and I couldn't agree more. Yet, you seem to have made an exception for Campbell."

Dean tossed the magazine aside and got to his feet. Okay, no more of this. "Alright," he said gamely, his brows lifting in a what-the-fuck-ever expression, "let's go." He refused to discuss Sam with any of them. So he'd have to just play along for now to get them off his back. "I can see that I won't get any peace in this place," he said wryly. "I might as well stop you people and your interventions from crawling up my ass."

"You owe me some weight training," Jared warned, "or I'll be back at it again tomorrow."

"Whatever," Dean shrugged in agreement. "Can we go? Something's telling me this game is going to see you all gripped by the short and curlies." He flashed a brief, smug smile he didn't particularly feel.

"Feeling lucky now?" The weightlifter raised a brow. "How is it that your ego never suffers an emo moment?"

"It does, it just recovers fast."

* * *

><p>Several rounds of cards in the library went by, not too excruciatingly. Dean hyper-focused on taking his card mates for all they were worth, and it was a fair distraction. The only problem with distractions was eventually they were over and then you had to remember why you'd needed one in the first place.<p>

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and made his way back to his room.

The thing that was really bothering him the most was that he didn't know what Sam was thinking. One day he'd been _Sam_, he'd been present, and the next, he looked like he couldn't care less if Dean fell off the planet. He wished he could blame it on whatever medications Sam had been given - that they'd jiggered his brain a little and he was just working his way through it. But Dean knew that wasn't the case. He'd seen _real _Sam poking through the frosty exterior when he'd ranted about their father. So, he knew that he was in there, he was just hiding out.

The other thing that was bothering him is that Sam's temper usually got the better of him, yet he was showing no signs of it at all. Not even a twitch. It was like he was putting all of his energy into being as inconspicuous as possible. And still, the visitations continued. It made Dean uneasy, like something was being plotted behind his back.

He rounded the corner, into the block where his room was located, and took pause. _Sam? _His brother's familiar form was passing by the room he shared with Ed, his back to him. Then he paused, regarding the entrance with what looked like hesitancy. He couldn't quite make out Sam's expression. Wavy brown hair swung forward as his brother dipped his head at the door, as one might nod to a headstone at a gravesite, making peace.

Anxiety jangled through Dean and it was like a steel band clamping suddenly over his chest, compressing it.

_Is that what this is about? His 'good behavior' and staying out of dodge - he's trying to leave this place? ((Without me?)_

Sam started to turn away again, resuming his onward trek.

Before Dean knew it, he'd closed the distance between them and had grabbed Sam by the arm. It was solid and real beneath his fingers. "Can I _talk _to you for a minute?"

Sam looked momentarily startled, eyes expressive as hell, then it was all neatly boarded up again. "I guess." He shrugged. "Can you make it quick? I'm kind of on a tight schedule."

"Sure you are," Dean said sarcastically, anger seeping into his voice._ If that was true, you wouldn't have been loitering outside my room. _He dragged Sam over to the door and pulled it open.

"Hey - what are you doing?" Sam protested, digging his heels in.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to talk to you out in the hallway, Sam." He gave his brother an ultimatum with his sharp glare.

Sam stopped just short of rolling his eyes. It was bravado, however; he looked edgy as he said, "Fine, fine. Whatever." He shrugged off Dean's grip and went into the darkened room.

Dean followed close behind him, not bothering with the overhead light. Ed's alien head nightlight was plenty bright. It was like being outside on a full moon. "All right," he said tightly. "Square with me, Sam,"

"About what?"

His brother sounded nearly authentic in his confusion. Nearly. But something was off, Dean could feel it. He stared Sam down and Sam stubbornly held his gaze with the stoic, unflappable expression Dean had become sick to death of these last few days. "You know what, now start talking."

Grey eyes flicked from his for a moment then returned, bringing a wry twist to Sam's lips. "No, I really don't."

Dean grabbed him by the front of the shirt and shoved him roughly against the wall with a thud. His fists clenched upon protesting fabric, and Sam's eyes had definitely gotten wider. He was close enough now to see something of his own reflection in their shiny surface. "You mind saying that again? I don't think I heard you right the first time."

He could feel Sam's heart hammering under his hand.

Sam wet his lips. "What do you want to know?" he said in a even voice.

Dean expelled an angry breath. "I want to know what's up with you, and why you can't find time in your _busy schedule _to fucking speak to me anymore."

"It isn't like that," Sam said through a rough sigh.

"Does it have something to do with Dad?" Dean asked sharply. He felt Sam's chest rise with a swift intake of breath, unbelied by his distant expression. "Come on, Sammy, tell me," he said with quiet intensity, changing tactics and appealing to whatever emotion his brother had left, "you owe me that much."

"It's not _just _Dad," Sam confessed stiffly, though he'd stopped looking at him. "But he did advise to keep a low profile, that it would make things easier."

Dean said nothing for a minute, the words hitting him and shaking their way through him like an earthquake. "So you were just going to leave?" His voice sounded raw with disbelief.

Sam's eyes snapped to his. The ambivalent expression was slipping, and a tortured look lurked beneath it. He was shaking his head as he said, "I was going to try and get you _out_."

"With dad's help?" Dean laughed humorlessly. "He hasn't even bothered to speak to me and you think he's going to help you bust me out?"

"It's complicated."

"Yeah, I'll just bet it is," Dean said sarcastically as his temper began to flare. "It's complicated how you can trust him with this, but you can't trust him to tell the truth about the accident. Or have you forgotten all about the issue you had with that?'

"I thought this was what you wanted?" Sam shot back, all wounded anger. "You said I should believe in him, and I **am**, if only to get you out of here, and all you can do is bitch about it."

"The way things are going, this'll just be goodbye and a lot of horseshit about 'see you later'."

"Is that what you think?" Sam sounded beside himself.

"Yes, I do," Dean said with irritation. "It'll all be just a big fat lie, smothered in good intentions." God, but he missed Sam already. The last several days had been a rude awakening to just how things would be again without his brother around.

"I thought you wanted me out of here, even if it wasn't with you," Sam said. "Isn't that part of why you were being such a dick to me? Trying to drive me off?"

"No," Dean said, shaking his head, but it was obvious it was a lie.

Sam gave him a piercing look that seemed to dig down into his very soul. He moved closer to Dean, holding his gaze. "You can't lie to me, Dean," he said with quiet intensity. "I can see right through you."

Dean swallowed, treading water in the sea of fear he had at losing his brother. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said gruffly. He was losing himself in those grey eyes as the space between them dwindled.

Sam's hand brushed the back of his neck, and he shuddered. Suddenly, Sam's expressive lips were the only thing in his field of vision and he was unable to look away.

Sam wet his lips and it was like it was happening in slow motion, Dean was so fixated. The slide of his quick tongue seemed to last minutes and Dean could think of nothing more than what Sam's mouth had felt like on his and how Sam's tongue had felt sliding against his own.

"I'll do whatever you want," Sam said in a husky voice, and it was unclear whether it was in reference to the thing with their father and the plan of escape, or the sexual tension that was currently growing between them.

Dean looked up into his eyes and they were dark and compelling, closing a moment later as Sam gripped the back of his head and kissed him hard.

He fell into it, unable to help himself. Sam's mouth was warm and hungry against his, stirring reaction and chasing away everything else - the uncertainty, the anger, the fear, and the feelings of abandonment.

He pressed his little brother into the wall, giving in to everything; the hard body against him, the soft indulgence of parted lips and the peace of mind that, in this moment, Sam was _his_.

It seemed so unreal to be close like this after he'd spent so many days struggling for even a scrap of attention. And in the back of his mind was the thought that Sam was choosing _this _right now, choosing _him_, even with the promise of a return to normal life hanging within reach.

Dean pulled back enough to drag his shirt off over his head. Sam was doing the same. Dean barely waited for him to finish, mussing his longer hair in the process, running his hands over Sam's bared torso and chest as he hunted his mouth. The air between them was hot and thick.

_'I'll do whatever you want.'_

The offer wasn't just tempting, it was irresistible. Maybe later he'd take it to mean they'd figure out a game-plan together on who was getting out of here and when, but just now Sam was feeding into his debased desires, kissing him like this and following his lead. Just now he wanted to... Oh, there were so many things he wanted, but foremost was the thought of driving himself into his brother's tight, hot body until he could feel Sam's shudders even upon his tongue.

He felt Sam's hands on the front of his pants, working them open. "You going to kiss me all night?" Sam goaded him, slightly out of breath. The words sounded so dirty coming from his mouth, and appealing.

"Only between doing other things," he responded, pulling Sam over to the bed and throwing him down upon it. He was so hard he felt like he was going to explode. How many times had he imagined this now? He kicked off his jeans. After breaking down the walls in his own mind, how many times had he violated his brother in his thoughts?

He sank down onto the mattress, his mouth crashing against Sam's, desire sharpening to a razor's edge. Fuck it, he was done fighting this. He was throwing in the towel.

Sam's hips rocked against his and he sucked in a breath._ God damn_. How would he last long enough to do what he really wanted when just this could finish him off?

He ground his hips into Sam's, forcing a sexy groan from his mouth. _Ah, hell. There's always a next time, _he thought as self-restraint took a back seat to instant gratification. He supposed he'd just have to wait see how long it would take Sam to handle a round two.

Sam's fingers were like tiny vices upon his arms as they moved against each other, hard flesh trapped between them. The sound of Sam's voice as moans and gasps forced their way through his clenched teeth... It was intoxicating.

_If he sounds this amazing now, what will he sound like when I-_

"Uunnh," Sam groaned as his body tightened with the first spasm. "Dean," he uttered in a groin-clenching moan as his back arched.

Orgasm hit Dean like a sack of bricks just hearing him. "God...damn..." he growled through clenched teeth, burying his face against Sam's neck and breathing him in. The warm, musky scent of his skin rolled his mind, fiercely perfect and arousing.

He knew this wouldn't be enough. Even as pleasure slithered through him, still twining about his body and mind, he knew he needed more. He caught Sam's lips and kissed him slow and deep, thoroughly and gently violating his mouth like he wanted to violate his body.

His hand trailed suggestively over Sam's hip, just lightly tracing down the arch of it. A small tension seized his brother's body in response, and as his fingertips deviated to stroke across his stomach, Sam shuddered into the caress.

"You sure about this?" he murmured against Sam's mouth. He knew he didn't have to be more specific about what 'this' might entail. Their eyes met, and at times like this it was nearly like being psychic - words weren't necessary. He was nearly afraid that the answer might be 'no'... full on sex was quite a different story than what they 'd done so far, especially for a guy who thought he was completely straight till now. But then, that applied to both of them, really. Dean considered himself to be straight as well, so he was going on instinct here more than experience.

"No," Sam responded in a desire-choked voice, "but I want to."

"Oh thank god," Dean breathed and kissed him with renewed vigor. He palmed Sam's hardening flesh, making him jump, then massaged and stroked it until it firmed in his hand and Sam was making small, urgent noises in the back of his throat. He was quite taken with all of it. "Heh, Sammy, you'd think you really _liked_this," he teased with a soft leer upon his lips.

"Shut up," Sam retorted, face coloring slightly. He made a failed attempt to cuff Dean in the head. It wasn't all that serious anyway and Dean easily evaded it while also sliding Sam's hospital issue pants down past his hips.

Being an ass, Dean also pecked him on the cheek patronizingly. He dodged another swat at his head, then leaned into to Sam's ear to whisper heatedly, "I'll be right back. We're missing something."

He slid off the bed and went over to rummage in the dresser that wasn't his. In the far back of the second drawer down, his fingers touched on the plastic packets he was looking for. He even discovered a bottle which, upon closer inspection, would be infinitely handy. Luckily for him, Ed was a bit of a trader in certain goods. He seemed to turn a fair profit at it and could always barter for other things he wanted. If he recalled properly, Ed had a brother or cousin or something that would visit and slip the stuff to him.

Sam was sitting up, raising an eyebrow as Dean returned with his prizes. "Lube and condoms? Well, don't you have the damnedest luck finding those in here."

"Shhh," Dean said, getting back onto the bed and kicking Sam's now naked legs apart as his eyes raked over him with lascivious intent, "You're ruining the mood."

"Worse than you?" Sam asked, a mischievous tilt to his eyes as Dean sank down to the bed, between his parted thighs.

"Me? I'm a freaking romantic." He proceeded to rip the edge off one of the condom packets with his teeth as he held it in one hand; pretty much disproving his claim, Sam thought, though it _was_kind of impressive looking.

Dean rolled the condom over his first two fingers and spread a liberal amount of lubricant over that.

Sam chewed the inside of his lip as he watched him. He could guess easily enough about how this was supposed to work, the mechanics of it, but... well... actually _doing_it seemed a bit ridiculous. Having someone stick their fingers up your-

"Woah! Hey-!" Sam said as Dean pushed him back onto the bed, laying on top of him, and as a slick pressure prodded his backside.

"Woah hey what?" Dean said, distracting him with caressing lips upon his throat.

"You can't just- I wasn't ready," Sam protested.

"You think too much," came the unrepentant reply. Dean began to mouth and suck upon a sensitive spot just underneath his jawline, soon rendering his mind officially useless, while pushing a finger inside of him.

Sam honestly thought it might feel weirder than it did, but he was too damn distracted to take much note of it. And when Dean's hot mouth covered his again, he was sort of beyond caring. He just wanted to do this thing, see what it felt like to have Dean within him.

Thinking about that was starting to become fuel for the fire. Suddenly, he was very aware of the fingers sliding into him as they brushed something that made his back arch sharply. "God," he said as he sucked in a breath.

Dean hit the spot again and Sam's legs felt like they'd turned to jello. One more time or two and he'd be done. His body was positively thrumming.

"You look really sexy like that," Dean said huskily, leaning in to suck on Sam's lower lip. "I almost don't want to stop."

He slid his fingers out and pulled the condom off, then opened another to use on himself. He pressed one more into Sam's hand. "Use this," he said. Sam dutifully ripped it open and put it on, though his mind protested the effort of even that minimal concentration, and his body burned as the rubber was rolled into place. By the time he was done, so was Dean, and he was soon feeling the press of hard flesh against his backside, seemingly too much for him to possibly be able to take in. "Just relax," Dean said.

"Idiot," Sam muttered, "How am I supposed to..." _Ohh... _Dean took him in hand, skilled movements of his fingers bringing the tight ache in his belly to a roar. It was during this that the press of Dean's arousal became the slide of his arousal, slipping slowly inside him as his body craved for more contact, craved for completion.

He groaned as he was filled to capacity, feeling every inch, and shuddering then as Dean's hips rocked forward in small snaps. He grabbed onto the plain metal rails of the headboard, clenching his hands upon it as pleasure began to ripple through him with force.

_God, yes._

He'd never felt anything so intense, never heard anything as amazing as Dean's voice as his reservations started to crumble and he became more vocal.

Sam met his thrusts, hastening their mad rush, wanting this to last forever yet wanting to come so badly.

They found each other's mouths again, and the wet penetration was like an aphrodisiac.

Dean cried out in a sultry voice as he came and Sam wasn't long after. He could feel his muscles wringing Dean's flesh as he shuddered and gasped for breath; each tight contraction describing the exact shape of Dean inside of him and shooting pleasure through his lower body with every movement.

It took him a few minutes to catch his breath after, and to regain his mind - it was utterly blank, like it had been blasted open.

Slowly, sense was trickling back in. Just enough to become aware of their surroundings again. The bed, the darkened room, and the pleasant weight that still rested upon him. No higher functions yet. He couldn't even have a proper opinion on anything that had just happened, let alone the repercussions of what they'd done, if he'd been asked.

His thighs were still shaking and most of his body felt like jello when Dean pressed soft, inquisitive lips to his. Their bodies were still joined and even the small shifting reminded him of that viscerally, making him shudder with the ghost of orgasm as his burned out pleasure centers tried to process it.

"When are you going to get out?" he asked as he felt Dean become more interested, semi-hard inside him which embarrassed him a little. It wasn't that he minded, exactly, but he didn't think he could survive another round. Sensation was raw, unfiltered. It would have felt good but it was almost too intense.

"Done already, Sammy?" Dean taunted him lightly as he nuzzled his throat. He rocked his hips forward in a gentle motion - it speared through Sam and made his eyes roll back. Right now he was like an overloaded circuit. He'd burn out.

His hands gripped Dean's forearms tightly. "You can't be serious," he panted through clenched teeth. "Again?" He was overly aware of everything, everywhere they touched. His body was hypersensitive, and he felt pinioned by Dean's insistent arousal.

He'd never had sex twice in a row in such quick succession. And he couldn't recall any time he'd attempted three times... that was just nuts.

"You need to work on your stamina."

Dean slid deep into his resisting body, wringing a groan from him as he shuddered. And then he was kissing and nipping at his lips teasingly. The damnedest thing was, Sam was starting to feel a tightness in his lower belly, the first stray eddies of desire.

It got worse when he contemplated those green eyes, that expressive mouth, or if he really let it sink in that it was Dean's arousal that was inside of him, pushing his limits.

He resented this magnetism his brother had, and how he seemed unable to be unaffected by it. He was too attracted to him for his own good. "You're a jerk," he said scathingly, sounding a little winded.

"And you're hot," Dean said against his mouth, glibly ignoring his protests, then claiming it with irreverent passion.

It was then that desire really took over, flaring in Sam's belly and demanding to be dealt with. Sam found himself kissing back with fervor, hands smoothing over Dean's back and over the sides of his hips, encouraging him to move. His brain hazed over once more and his pulse was hammering in his skin as Dean began stroking him from the inside, thrusting against him with short, electric snaps. _God... _

Why couldn't he escape the feeling of _wanting_?

It was almost like it needed beaten out of him, wrung from his very being. As it was, Dean had been able to dredge it up out of him a third time to kill like this, thoroughly.

With Dean's voice in his ear, rough and overcome, Sam's body jolted, orgasm smacking him hard and fast.

He lay there after and his heart was pounding violently once again like he'd run a marathon. His lungs pumped with effort, trying to gain enough oxygen.

Maybe that was why everything was whited out like a blizzard - not enough oxygen to the brain.

That could also be why he thought he heard 'I love you' murmured against the side of his cheek in a husky, compelling voice.

Imagined or not, it gave him a sense of peace. Just now, he drifted in a limbo where for once, all of the things that had been plaguing him were distant, like they didn't even exist. There was no pain, no suffering. Just a place to belong, and the reassuring warmth of his brother's body beside his.

* * *

><p>Dean started as a timid knock came at the door and it opened. "Dean?" his roommate Ed called gingerly.<p>

Dean felt Sam jump and he pressed quick fingers to his lips, telling him to be silent as he pulled the sheet up over his brother's head. He was on the outside edge of the bed so it wasn't too difficult hiding Sam from view. "Kinda busy right now," Dean said in a pointed but lazy fashion. "You mind?"

Ed goggled as he caught sight of Dean stretched out naked on the bed with his back to the room. It would have been obvious that_ someone_ was in the bed with him, just not _who_.

Dean favored him with a bland look over his shoulder. "I wasn't really asking if you minded, Ed, I was telling you to get the fuck out."

"I- er-" Poor Ed was pole axed. "Right..." He seemed unable to get his feet in gear.

"Keep staring like that and I'm going to have to charge you."

Ed snapped out of it just enough to make a hasty retreat. "I um... have people I need to... friends I'm supposed to see. Meet up with." He edged back towards the door. "So, uh, don't wait up," he said before scuttling back through it.

Dean flipped the covers back off of Sam and shook his head. "My roommate," he presented with aplomb.

Sam sat up, a pensive frown on his face. "There is something _wrong _with that kid."

"Four out of five doctors agree," Dean joked blandly.

"Well, I guess he wouldn't really be here without a reason."

_And neither would I, huh? _Dean thought with aggravation. "Oh, don't start that shit again." He was sick of his brother hinting around that he was mental.

"I'm not, I'm not," Sam said quickly, holding his hands up defensively as he sat up. "I meant, I shouldn't be surprised to see people say or do weird things here. There's a higher chance of it, anyway, than on the outside." He peered at Dean assessingly, his expression careful and positively radiating _'I am logical to a fault, and fair, so I can't help making these kinds of observations. I would also not purposely piss you off (I'd probably lie first)'_.

"I never said that everyone who **is** here _should _be here," Sam continued in a perfect slippery-lawyer voice, meant to disarm. "Like I mentioned before, Rosenhan's experiment proved that at the least; People can be misdiagnosed or totally sane and still end up in places like this."

"Alright, alright," Dean interrupted before Sam got any more momentum behind his argument about how non-judgmental he was, "don't get all pre-law on me. I believe you."

"You do realize I made it_ past _pre-law?"

"Er... what's the difference?"

"It means I've gotten my bachelor's degree and had actually started law school already." Sam sighed. "What have you been doing with yourself since you've been here? You're lucky I'm here to save what's left of your neglected brain."

"Shut up, college boy. I may not have stuffed myself with factoids and higher education the last few years, like you, but I have plenty of other skills I've honed."

"Like what?" Sam sounded dubious.

Dean did an obvious pan down Sam's body, calling attention to the utter disarray of him. "I think you may have recently been acquainted with at least one of them."

Sam dragged the sheets up to cover more of himself, embarrassment touching his face. "Idiot," he muttered. He ceded the argument by abruptly asking, "Where are my pants?"

"Right," Dean said, looking around for them. "Guess you can't stay here." Lights out would be any time now, and all of the residents would be expected to be in their assigned rooms.

"Would you want me to?"

Dean threw Sam's pants at his head in response. "What kind of dumbass question is that? You're going to be one helluva shitty lawyer."

"Shut up," Sam said as he dragged his pants off his face and started pulling them on. "We were sort of fighting before," he reminded Dean. "I wasn't going to just _assume_ anything changed - _that _would be stupid."

"Well, I don't know about you," Dean said, running a hand through his short, spiky hair, "but I'm sick of fighting." His lips twisted slightly. "Can we agree to shelve our differences for now and just try to work together?"

"Sounds great. Why didn't you think of that in the first place when you were so busy being pissed at me?"

Dean's expression soured. "You're making reconciliation a bit difficult here, Sammy."

"Don't you 'Sammy' me." Sam's eye glinted at him in a sharp look. "You totally started all of this when you flew off the handle, and then with the thing in the cafeteria. I wanted to talk, but you wouldn't allow it."

"Fine, I started it," Dean said in an irritated tone. "But you were no innocent party. What the hell was up with you after that? By the time I realized my mistake, you were snubbing me harder than vegetarians do meat."

Sam shrugged and slid off the bed. "Seemed the right thing to do at the time."

"That's it?"

"What do you want me to say?"

Dean shook his head abruptly and got off the bed, hunting his pants. "Nothing. Never mind."

"Are we going back to fighting again, or were we going to put this behind us?"

Dean buttoned his pants. "Hell, no, we're not going back to fighting. The silent treatment was driving me up the wall."

"Ditto," Sam said firmly. He couldn't count how many times he'd wanted to beat Dean in the head for doing just that. And here he was acting like Sam had been doing all the ignoring and that he was a saint for letting it slide.

"Why do you have to go and be snotty?"

"Because you're so determined to get the last word in."

"Sounds to me like you're the one doing that. _'Ditto'_?" Dean scoffed. "Pot calling the kettle."

_Obnoxious. _"Dean, has anyone ever told you how aggravating you can be?" Sam asked evenly as he pulled on his shirt. Dean's blame-laying and stubbornness seemed to be on a near professional level. He wasn't going to win this by arguing, he'd probably just have to let it go.

"Of course not, I'm a joy to be around."

Sam let out a short laugh despite himself. Dean's sense of humor really got him sometimes - it was so ridiculous what he could say in certain situations with a straight face. "I'm sure," he said with mild sarcasm.

"You seem to be one of the paltry few who are immune to my charms."

Sam stretched, bringing his arms over his head. "Mn, no, I wouldn't say that." Considering what they'd been up to such a short time ago, he'd say nothing could be further from the truth.

"Good," Dean said, flashing him a smile, "I'm wearing you down already."

Sam made a show of rolling his eyes, though the corners of his lips were quirking up.

"Walk you to your room?" Dean offered.

"And be seen with you in public?" Sam joked. "I'd never live it down." Actually, it was probably best if they avoided things like that - roaming the halls together late at night. The less attention they drew, the better. Besides, he'd already royally screwed up on his father's request for him to keep his distance from his brother. He was sure that in some ways it would have been for the best, but it seemed like staying away from Dean was just asking the impossible. In compense, they could just minimize the impression of closeness they gave to watching eyes.

"Eh, you're probably right. 'Sides, I have to deal with Ed and he ought to be getting back any moment now." He paused. "I get the feeling we have to keep our distance...?"

"For a little while at least."

"Because of Dad?"

"Partly... I can't really say right now, but there are things going on here, Dean, that just - I don't know. Strange things."

Dean didn't like having the truth withheld from him, but in the spirit of cooperation, he said, "Well, just tell me when you can, then." He wanted Sam to know that he trusted him. That was the most important thing. Everything else could wait.

"Thanks," Sam said, catching his eye. "I mean it."

"Sure," he responded. After a moment's debate, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Sam's in a quick, soft kiss. Strangely, even such a small thing felt taboo, despite everything else they'd already done. He supposed it was because this was all still so new that it felt so fragile and tenuous.

It was probably a bit nihilistic of him to keep testing it and poking at it, waiting for the backfire.

"See you at breakfast?" Sam asked, trying, like him, to gauge how they should proceed.

"Yeah." It amazed him how good Sam smelled. He could just bury himself in it and sleep like the dead. It was a shame such indulgences were no longer at their disposal. It really made him want to break the rules. "Now get back to your room before your 'bodyguard' blows a gasket."

Sam gave him a parting kiss, cheekily slipping him some tongue, and then he was gone.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:** Chapter title from the song **"Heavy Weight" by Infected Mushroom**(instrumental). The B-side would be the following song:

**"Hold Your Colour" - Pendulum**

_Soaking through_  
><em>Colours that held us up against the wall<em>  
><em>Soaking through<em>  
><em>Colours that held us up against the wall<em>

_Hold your colours against the wall,_  
><em>When they take everything away,<em>  
><em>Hold your colours against the wall,<em>  
><em>With me<em>

_Twisted the knife, and opened your eyes_  
><em>[x4]<em>  
><em>Twisted the knife, and opened your eyes (Twisted the knife, til you were in the right place)<em>  
><em>[x4]<em>

_Soaking through_

_Hold your colours against the wall,_  
><em>When they take everything away,<em>  
><em>Hold your colours against the wall,<em>  
><em>With me (Soaking through)<em>

_Twisted the knife, and opened your eyes (Twisted the knife, til you were in the right place)_  
><em>[x8]<em>

_But, she looked into your eyes,_  
><em>And saw what lay beneath,<em>  
><em>Don't try to save yourself,<em>  
><em>The circle is complete,<em>  
><em>In reaching out and into you,<em>  
><em>Nothing else can touch me<em>

_Soaking through_

_Hold your colours against the wall,_  
><em>When they take everything away,<em>  
><em>Hold your colours against the wall,<em>  
><em>With me (Soaking through)<em>

_But, she looked into your eyes,_  
><em>And saw what lay beneath,<em>  
><em>Don't try to save yourself,<em>  
><em>The circle is complete<em>

_Twisted the knife, and opened your eyes (Twisted the knife, til you were in the right place)_  
><em>[x10]<em>

_Fading gently,_  
><em>Soaking through,<em>  
><em>And starting not to show at all<em>  
><em>In reaching out and into you, nothing else could touch me<em>

_Hold your colours against the wall,_  
><em>When they take everything away,<em>  
><em>Hold your colours against the wall<em>

_Soaking through_

_Hold your colours against the wall,_  
><em>When they take everything away,<em>  
><em>Hold your colours against the wall,<em>  
><em>With me.<em>


	21. Psycho

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 20: Psycho<span>

The next morning, it was by unspoken agreement that Sam and Dean sat apart from each other, as they'd been doing.

Sam was already in the cafeteria when Dean arrived, nursing a cup of what had to be coffee. Dean felt a smile tug at his lips just laying eyes on him, not to mention having the option of interacting with him again. His gargantuan bodyguard Bernice was present at his side, eating a massive pile of scrambled eggs and sausage links. Sam's grey eyes flicked up to Dean's as if sensing his presence in the room, and as their gazes met, they telegraphed possibilities back and forth.

Sam looked fresh, earnest and wide awake. He raised his eyebrows slightly in question, seeing if they were to eat together. A bland look slid over his face then, as he subtly indicated his companion, saying he'd be happy to ditch him.

Dean considered it. His posse was absent, at the moment, but he had no doubt they would appear in short order.

Hmn... it was probably a bad idea. As it was, he couldn't quite suppress the foreign feeling of being happy which was bubbling up in his chest. He was in serious danger of grinning like an idiot. He suspected that a large part of that was not only making up with Sam, but consummating his feelings with him.

Funny, he'd never gone all moon-eyed after sleeping with someone before, yet that certainly did seem to be the case now.

He should probably act with the intention of conserving his dignity. Sam's lips had quirked into a crooked smile with a hint of amusement, though he too looked in danger of grinning like an idiot. Yeah, they should keep their distance until this side effect blew over.

Dean winked at him, unable to help it, and Sam stuck out his tongue in response. _'Jerk,' _his brother mouthed.

_'Bitch,'_ he mouthed back with smug look that translated into _'__**My **__bitch,' _just to be obnoxious.

_'Ass.' _Sam rolled his eyes heavenward, though he looked like he was trying not to laugh.

Dean went ahead into the very short line to get food. It was pretty early, yet. Not many people were here. He nearly whistled, he was in such a good mood. He curbed the impulse. If anyone caught him doing such a thing, _him_, Dean Winchester, they'd really think he was nuts. He didn't exactly have a rep for being the most cheerful, personable guy in the facility. Violent at times? Yes. Happy enough to start bursting with show tunes? Not so much.

The only dampener on his obscenely good mood was the unknown factor that was his father. Dean wanted to know what he was planning, why he was here, and what he'd been saying to Sam. He also wanted to know why his father was maintaining radio silence with him. There had to be a reason. John never did anything without a reason. Problem was, he didn't often feel it necessary to share those reasons.

He sighed. Fixating on it wasn't going to change anything, and pressing Sam on the matter wouldn't help either. He just needed to put it out of his head and wait for Sam to pony up when he felt it was time.

Dean chose grits, sausage links and french toast for his breakfast and brought it back to his usual table. He wasn't exactly surprised when Jared sat down across from him a mere handful of minutes later. Less surprising than that was the rest of the crew assembling over the coming ten minutes or so. Had he called it, or what? Like a flock of vultures. He glanced surreptitiously at Sam and happened to catch his eye. _'See?' _His brother nodded slightly, passing it off like he was talking to Bernice, but Dean knew it was in response to him.

"Hey, I heard something interesting this morning," Garth said conversationally, bringing Dean's attention back around to his own table again.

"What's that?" Pokey asked.

"Seems like lately, a bunch of residents have been freaking out."

"So?" Jared said.

"Well," Garth continued, "They all seem to be Dr. Singer's. Isn't that odd?"

"Isn't that your doc, Dean?" Jared asked him.

Dean nodded with a frown, continuing to eat his breakfast. That _was _weird. From the outside, it could look like he was a horrible doctor or that he was fucking with his patient's heads. But he knew Bobby wasn't the type. He could be a bit of a hardass, and had been more than a little crotchety lately, but...

"Isn't that Campbell's doc, too?" Garnet tossed out.

Dean nodded again, too distracted to assess whether he should be answering such questions regarding Sam and what that could imply about the two of them and their involvement. Call him paranoid, but didn't the issues with Bobby's patients crop up in conjunction with odd things like trying to make up with Sam after their fight and their father's arrival? He remembered Sam getting dosed and how he'd wanted to switch back into the same room again so he could look after him, and then Bobby being too busy and stressed to deal with his request. Could those things coinciding be more than mere coincidence?

Call him ultra-paranoid, but was someone trying to set them up? Just to keep them apart or something else? And add this as a cherry on top - was the matter of Bobby's patients wigging out just someone's way of keeping the psychiatrist distracted from other things? Or was somebody actually setting him up to look bad? Who stood to gain anything from discrediting Bobby and making him look like he couldn't do his job?

"Dean, what's up, man?" Jared said, giving him a weird look.

Dean realized that he'd paused with a bite of french toast held halfway to his mouth. "Nothing. Was just thinking that was really weird." He tried to play off his inner musings. "If I start acting all crazy, put me out of my misery before I embarrass myself, ok?"

"You mean like how you went all nuts over Campbell recently?" Jared asked with a bland tone.

"No, asshole, like dancing-around-in-a-pink-tutu kind of nuts."

"I don't know," Garth said. "That would be quite some entertainment, it'd be a shame to end it so hastily."

Dean flipped him off and went back to eating.

"So, Winchester," Garnet addressed Dean, oddly enough, by his family name, making him look up. "When did you make up with Sam?"

"Did I?" Dean played stupid and started in on his grits.

Garnet was giving him an unfriendly look. It was obvious he was pissed at getting the runaround. But his relationship with Sam was none of the kid's damn business anyway.

Suddenly the deadpan expression was back on Garnet's face, and then Dean was waiting for the inevitability of his next words to drop. Garnet could be a bitch at times and it looked like now was going to be one of them. "Not that you mentioned," the black-haired youth said in his flat voice, eyes steadily boring holes into Dean. "But I couldn't help but notice you don't flinch anymore when someone says his name."

Dean ground his teeth in irritation. God damn that long-haired sonuvabitch for being so freaking observant. He'd done his best to hide that kind of thing from prying eyes. And damn him a second time for bringing it up in front of everyone.

But Garnet wasn't finished. "I, too, heard something interesting this morning. Seems that late last night, Ed was kicked out of his room because his _roommate_," Garnet said the word pointedly and, of course, everyone knew that it was Dean, "was up to something involving being in the buff and wanting some alone time." He paused and looked around the table. "Ed couldn't be sure, but he thought that someone was in bed with him, only he didn't know_ who_."

"Garnet," Dean said harshly, "quit blowing smoke."

"I have a few guesses," the Native American looking biker said, "but they all start with Sam and end with Campbell."

Dean resisted the urge to wipe his hand over his face. So much for keeping on the down-low. Why was Garnet being such a pain in the ass this morning? He opened his mouth to try and say something to derail the interrogation, but he didn't get a chance to really start. "I'm not sure why you-"

"Don't even," Garnet cut him off angrily. "_Please_. Anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain can see the storm clouds have lifted off the pair of you. And your stress level was off the charts before - now you have the nerve to look like all is right with the world?" Garnet had quite the glare when he exercised it, which wasn't often. "You're going to sit here and tell me you **didn't **just get laid?"

Dean could see nods of agreement going on around the table.

"I don't see where it's any of your fucking business either way," Dean said. What the hell was Garnet trying to zero in on?

"Keeping your distance from him, saying jack all to us and acting like nothing happened..." Garnet's eyes narrowed. "You're hiding something."

Dean stared back willfully, even as _'Oh, shit' _was ringing in his head. If anyone could figure out his real connection with Sam, it would be Garnet. He was eerily skilled at piecing things together from minuscule scraps of information. What was it he'd said when he was trying to strong-arm Dean into talking things out with Sam?

_'The both of you are so fucking stubborn! I'd swear you were _related _or something. I've never seen anyone else like either of you.'_

Related. Yeah, Garnet was already too close to the truth.

And of course with the group of them taking bets on when he and Sam would get physical, and being generally un-bigoted, it wasn't like he'd have to worry too much over losing acceptance for getting involved with another guy, though they'd certainly give him shit for it. Alone, him hooking up with Sam would not be perceived as too big of a deal. Unless there was something else to the affair that he didn't want to let anyone in on, it wouldn't be worth bothering to cover it up. Garnet had honed in on that, deducing that he was skulking around and hiding something. And by the way he'd kicked this whole thing off, the biker had to have been waiting for Dean to say something and was getting steadily bent out of shape when nothing was forthcoming.

Garnet was an odd contradiction of not giving a fuck and being completely anal over some things.

"Did it ever occur to you, _any _of you," Dean said in an aggravated voice, "that maybe I was pissed about that stupid bet you had going on behind my back?" He sent a sharp look around the table. "Why the hell should I feed into it, telling you what I do and when?"

"Or _who _you do?" someone cracked under their breath.

Dean ignored them. In the end, mostly cowed looks met his plausible, though not entirely truthful tirade, proving his acting skills to be not-too-shabby. Garnet wasn't sold on it, but he looked like he was willing to drop it for the moment. He even looked a little like he was sulking when he said, "Still, no reason to leave Campbell stuck with his roommate over there."

"What, you want me to go over there and stick my tongue down his throat?" Dean said facetiously. "Then you can watch the Behemoth freak out on me and try to rip out my spine."

"Behemoth, isn't that a metal band?" Garth said to no one in particular.

"Polish," Garnet replied absently, still frowning over Dean's reaction.

"You think he likes Campbell or something?" Jared asked Dean, cutting through the extraneous chatter.

"Dunno, but the thought occurred," Dean said, biting viciously into a sausage link. "Seemed prudent to not waltz around with a neon sign saying, _'Hey, we fucked'_, just in case."

"S-So you did?" Pokey asked twitchily. He looked like he really wanted to know, but was afraid of having his nuts ripped off for asking.

"No comment," Dean said.

"But D-Dean, you as good as admitted it-" the smaller man persisted in confusion.

"Then _why the fuck _are you asking me?" he snapped with ill temper. _Jesus_. His so-called friends had one hell of a way with killing his good mood; they'd cut it off at the knees, hanged it, and then proceeded to light its ass on fire.

"Because-" Pokey started to explain.

"Shut up, Lewis," Garnet interrupted. "He wasn't really asking you."

* * *

><p>The next day, something unusual happened. The time of the occurrence was halfway between lunch and dinner, mid-afternoonish, and it was ushered in by a new face belonging to one Dr. Dimitri. The setting was a large room, filled with chairs and tables that hadn't seen much use in the past several years. The name of the gathering, involving many residents who were later broken into smaller clusters, was one that few liked to so much as utter.<p>

...Group Therapy.

"Excuse me, everyone," Dr. Dimitri said in his thick Dracula-like accent as he assumed a position at the front of the room. "Can I have your attention, please?" 'Please' sounded like 'pul_eee_ze', sort of squished out, with the emphasis on 'ease'.

The room got marginally quieter which the psychiatrist seemed to think acceptable enough to continue.

Dimitri began a slow pacing as he spoke, "I understand it has been some time since any of you might have participated in therapy within a group setting." This was met with groans, and some eye rolling, as well as a strange chittering from someone which was sort of disturbing.

"I want PIE!" someone catcalled.

"Shut up, I said," a man snarled while swatting the air.

The din was resuming and steadily gaining strength. It was hard to say how many people were truly disturbed and how many merely liked to stir up trouble.

To his credit, the doctor didn't so much as bat an eyelash. He did, however, hold his hand up as if politely requesting that they refrain from noise-making just a little while longer. Somehow it seemed to work. "I can appreciate your reluctance, however, it has been determined that this augmentation to your therapy would be beneficial at this time; so please get used to the idea." Dr. Dimitri ran a hand over his short, immaculate beard. "I will mainly be assisting Dr. Singer, who is the primary doctor for many of you, while he is attending to more critical cases. That way you will not receive any shortage of care in the interim."

Dean, who was sprawled sloppily into a chair, as was his habit, raised his hand and said, "I don't need any therapy. Can I go?"

The doctor looked taken aback but recovered quickly. He glanced at his clipboard and back up again. "Mr. Winchester, is it?" 'It' sounded like 'eet'. It was kind of amusing.

Dean shrugged, being mildly unhelpful.

"Why is it you think that you do not need therapy?"

Dean started to answer, but the doctor held up a hand, politely requesting silence.

"And why is it," he continued, "that you believe yourself to be different from everyone else here, so special, that you alone may be exempted from a universal program?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "For one thing, I'm not crazy. For another, what the hell makes you think _you're_so special that you can sit around telling everyone else what's wrong with them?"

"Aside from a PhD in psychology and over 25 years in the field?" the doctor asked mildly.

Dean frowned. "Doesn't mean you're any good at it."

Dr. Dimitri smiled and laughed. "True enough. Though I would not be here to assist Dr. Singer if that were the case."

A hand went up on the other side of the room, catching the psychiatrist's attention. "Yes?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," said a familiar, law-student-ish voice, "but doesn't Dr. Singer see as many patients as Dr. Abdolev or anyone else? Why is he the only one having trouble keeping up with his workload?"

Dean wondered if it was a good idea for Sam to ask something like this aloud and in front of an audience. It really did make Bobby look bad. Though, this might be the only arena in which such a question might be answered. There would be pressure from the group of them for a proper answer, instead of just the badgering of one person in a closed session, which could be written off more easily.

"Yeah," someone else said. "I got friends who don't have to do crap like this. Why's it just us?"

A jumble of murmurs and muttering started up and Dimitri once again looked taken off guard.

"I would like to go ahead and start," the doctor said then over the rising din, "as I am unable to disclose the particulars of Dr. Singer's work. Anyone with further questions may see me later, by appointment." It was kind of impressive how fast he recovered and could become professional once more. "As we are a large group, we will be splitting into smaller units and my assistants will help guide you."

Within two minutes, they were divied up into their groups of 5-7 people and Dr. Dimitri was approaching Dean's group first. He sat in an empty chair and faced the lot of them. "Part of recovery is socialization," he said amiably, though the effect was ruined somewhat by his thick accent which made it seem that any minute he might let slip an, 'I vant to suck your bloood.' Not that he would, of course, but the impression was there; even if it was at odds with his innocuous, greying brown hair and mild-mannered face. The accent was just that Transylvanian.

"Mr. Winchester," the doctor began. 'Meester Veenchester...' Heh. He sounded like The Count from the Muppets. "_V'one, two, three, ah ha ha."_It was hard to take him seriously. It was also hard to take orders from someone who sounded like a muppet. "You have exhibited a perfect candidacy for socialization. Therefore, you shall go first."

"And how have I done that?" Ugh, the last thing he wanted to do is be a part of this caring and sharing circle. It was bullshit. _Socialization my ass. _He'd done this song and dance before and at the end of the day, he just wanted to keep private shit to himself and not spill his guts in front of a bunch of total strangers.

"You are very standoffish," the doctor observed patiently. "You also do not like to endure things that you feel have no merit, and you are not open-minded to others' disagreements with your judgment." He looked again to the group. "To be successful in society, we_ must_ be open-minded, even-tempered, and in control of _our_selves. We must exercise tolerance, and _grow _our ability to 'tolerate', just as we would exercise a muscle. When this skill atrophies, or diminishes, we find ourselves at the mercy of our most basic instincts which will hinder us in daily life." He made eye contact with each one of them. "Do you all follow me?"

Several people nodded, one stared off into space, and still one other muttered, "You use big words," under his breath.

"Mr. Winchester," Dr. Dimitri focused on him again. "You are very intelligent." This was not a compliment, but some sort of segue. "This will cause you more problems than most." He addressed the group once more. "People with higher intelligence will struggle most of all with themselves, though the outside world is always a factor. I'm sure you've all heard the phrase 'You are your own worst enemy'?" Nods all the way around. "Intelligent people often over-analyze their surroundings to the point at which it is no longer helpful, but becomes like quicksand they can never escape. They are no longer protecting themselves, but are _hurting_ themselves. Distrust, paranoia, anger. These are your weapons against _your_self. We all have them. But what we _must_ do is learn to _control _them, and to be aware of when our perceptions become distorted and dangerous."

"And what if the distrust, paranoia, and anger are warranted?" Dean asked flippantly. "Where do you draw the line? The world isn't all cookies and rainbows, and thinking otherwise is just deceiving yourself, leaving you wide open."

"Part of it is merely your perception," the doctor ceded. "But you _make _the world into the image you perceive. You will interpret events accordingly, compounding and compounding it until there is no other way to see it." Dr. Dimitri crossed one ankle over the other. "If you expect to see darkness, that is what you will find. You attune yourself to its spectrum, and it will be harder to see the light. But that doesn't mean that the light is not there."

Dean was starting to feel twitchy and aggravated. What was this tree-hugger crap the doc was spouting? Sure, it sounded marginally reasonable on the surface, but so did the best brainwashing. "That's a nice concept, but I don't believe it. The world is what it is. I've looked for those bright spots and they are too few and far between."

"That is because you are willfully close-minded."

"Oh really?" Dean snapped, temper getting the better of him. "Then I suppose my parents splitting up was a good thing and somehow I just wasn't seeing it? And losing my brother, that was for the best? I must've been looking at it all wrong, huh? Well then, why don't you enlighten me? Tell me what the fucking bright side of that was."

The doctor looked at him with a piercing gaze, his russet brown eyes appearing to see all. "I think you know the answer to that."

Dean stared back, incredulous at receiving such a bullshit, evasive answer. At the same time, deep deep down he was also aware of a lock-box of forced-down emotions and thoughts. It contained both his elation at being near Sam again, and his gratitude that this hellhole had brought them even closer than they had any right to be.

These were things that were never supposed to see the light of day, yet this doctor was dredging them up like it was nothing and he didn't like the guilt that rode in upon their exposure.

"No one said that the road to happiness was an easy one, Dean. Sometimes we get lost on the path, jaded, and even stagnated. But without struggle, pain, or misery, how could we comprehend the lack of such and appreciate it? How could we know happiness without these things to give it meaning?"

* * *

><p>John Winchester sat in Dr. Singer's office, waiting for Sam to show. They'd been meeting around the same time each day. Sometimes with the doctor in attendance, sometimes not. Singer was out at the moment, but that suited him just fine. He had some questions for his younger son that he would prefer not having an audience for.<p>

He was worried. He couldn't claim that he knew his son like the back of his hand any longer, not with how much time had passed, but he was still pretty sure that Sam wasn't acting normal; his temper was like a live wire, and hostility lurked in his gaze even when he was sounding even-tempered. It was just so unlike his boy. He'd had always been quiet, understanding, and non-aggressive for the most part. He was the counterpart for Dean's rash decisiveness and quick temper. On the other hand, Sam could be obstinate whereas Dean would just follow instructions.

Sam had been book-smart, and Dean had been cunning and quick. But just as his eldest boy seemed to harbor hidden kindness beneath the tough shell he'd built over himself, could Sam have been holding onto enmity and discontent?

John rubbed a hand over his face. It was more than just the accident and being here that had caused a change in him, wasn't it? Something of it had to have been there to begin with. Though, before, he seemed to have been keeping it in check. Mary had never made mention of a problem, and she would have, if it was something like this.

Not only that, Sam was almost acting more like Dean now. Wearing anger on his sleeve, losing self-restraint... the very things he needed to keep in check if he was to live in society.

Was this place doing that? He hadn't seen Dean, so he couldn't gauge how his eldest might have fared at the hands of the system. He'd just heard some background from Dr. Singer that mostly sounded in line with Dean's typical behavior. Though he had been getting increasingly more reckless before finally getting committed, it seemed that his judgment and restraint had certainly worsened afterward. Normally, he never would have done something like attempting to attack a suspected lycanthrope without being positive, and certainly he would have aimed to kill. Besides, the odds of the cutlery in the cafeteria containing any silver at all was pretty low.

Dean had also been involved in a lot of fighting in general.

Perhaps it was the medication?

John tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Remembering his own time in the state hospital was difficult at best. Much of it was just impressions, a blur, and emotions. It was something like being blindfolded and treading water, feeling things move past him, bump him, or sometimes even shock him like a live current. It had been hell trying to keep it together. And it had been a feat to not only figure out that it was his attending physician who was making it all so much worse than it had to be, but to get away from him as well.

He'd been barely lucid much of the time. But he remembered that man's face, and his sickeningly pleasant, carefully modulated voice. He'd even had nightmares about him later, long after he'd been transferred into Dr. Sulli's care. There were night frights about being trapped, confined, pursued by a monster that could enter his room like oily smoke. Then there were the needles. Always the needles. Syringes held up to his face for his inspection, feeding his terror, before being emptied into his veins.

He was pretty certain it was just the medication wearing off that was causing the delusions. After a time, they stopped. Not long after, Dr. Sulli was issuing him a clean bill of health and telling him to go get his life back in order.

John frowned to himself. He regretted the time that he'd had to leave his eldest son, and wished that Mary had at least thought about Dean's well-being a little more and taken him in as well after having her husband committed. But she hadn't, and Dean had made do; it's just that he seemed so much more world-weary than before. His green eyes had aged so much by the next time John had laid eyes upon him. But he'd never complained. Never. And maybe he should have. _Maybe then he wouldn't have become more of a battle hardened soldier than even I'd trained him to be. _Maybe then he would have had a different life.

John's jaw set in rigid lines as uncertainty and guilt started chewing at the corners of him, trying to compromise his resolve and undermine the decision he'd made all those years ago.

But what choice had there been? Someone needed to do the job they did, even at the expense of their own happiness, and Dean understood that. _What could I really have done differently? _Should he have raised his boys not knowing how to protect themselves? Would they even have been alive today if he hadn't?

The door to the office opened at last, freeing him from his thoughts.

"Hello, John," a stranger in a white coat said as he entered the room, closing the door behind him.

John nodded briefly at the man, who was presumably a doctor, wondering who he was and what he might be doing here. His voice was eerily familiar and instantly put him on edge.

"I came to inform you that Sam will not be able to make it," the man continued in a comfortably languid voice as he malingered, pausing to pick up an item or two from Singer's desk to contemplate, a benign smile on his face. His words had a vaguely menacing tone beneath the pleasantry. "He is currently... indisposed."

It wasn't until the man's glittering gaze slid his way that it hit him, filling his veins with ice. "Dr. Kimmel."

The man smiled widely through the large beard his face now bore. "You remembered, John. I'm flattered. But I go by Dr. Walter now."

"Why are you here?" John asked tightly, conditioned response making him twitchy every time he contemplated the man's pockets and what he probably had within them. The doctor's right hand was remaining comfortably hidden.

"Why, I work here, Mr. Winchester. I should think that much is obvious."

"Don't play games," he said sharply. "You know what I'm asking." Why was he suddenly being faced with the doctor that had made his existence in the state hospital a living hell? He'd suspected it, but the reality still hit him like a two ton anchor. What was he doing _here _of all places? And why now? Could it be just a coincidence that he was here at the same time as Dean, and now Sam?

It was possible... but he found he didn't have much use for believing in coincidences. From experience, their existence usually just pointed to a larger pattern being in effect.

"I'm just here to make a living. It was merely good fortune that your boy was brought to Oak Grove, affording me entertainment." His gaze was sly, reptilian. "And it was through no effort of my own that your other son was hand-delivered to me as well, was it, John?" He laughed. "No, I do believe you did that on your own."

John's rugged features tightened as he clenched his teeth. "You can't keep doing as you please, treating people like this. You'll be found out."

"By whom, might I ask?" the younger looking physician queried. "Who cares about one more nutcase claiming his doctor is trying to harm him? Residents are disbelieved by default." He sounded so calm and reasonable, it was sickening. "Even Dean knows this, which is why he's never said a word. Such a smart boy you've raised there, John, you should be proud."

"I'll report you myself."

"Hmm," Dr. Walter said, unconcerned as he turned the solid globe paperweight in his hand this way and that. Light caught on its marble surface and on the gold latitude and longitudinal lines which formed a grid upon its surface. "You _could _do that." He set it down again, his smile breaking into a laugh. His eyes glittered merrily as he turned to lean back upon the desk. "But no one will believe you, John. Once a patient, always an ex-patient. Forever after, your credibility is impugned."

"Wouldn't that be convenient for you if it were true," John said bitingly. His skin was crawling. This man was surrounded by the smoky entrails of entrapment. His mind seemed ever busy, calculating all the moves to take to achieve his whims. John still remembered the sight of his face when he'd realized his favorite patient had slipped through his fingers. He'd obviously hated to lose and would likely try to gain back lost ground, if only on principle. John knew he had to watch his step. He'd known that before coming here, when he'd only just suspected the doctor's presence... but being face to face with this adversary all of a sudden...

"Oh, but it is. And you know it. There is also no trail to tie you to me, aside from any memories we may share." He smiled engagingly. "The professional community would be much more likely to believe you've relapsed, don't you think?"

"Are you trying to threaten me?"

"Do you feel threatened?"

"No," he lied. "But I'm pissed off that bastards like you play with people's heads and feel like it's your god-given _right_."

"God? God has nothing to do with it, John. You of all people surprise me with such talk." He pushed off from the desk and strolled slowly over to his ex-patient as he spoke. "There are merely the weak and the strong." His hand alighted upon the back of John's chair. "Those who are cunning, and those who are not cunning enough."

John rose to his feet, not wanting to give the other man any advantage, even one so small as height. He was as on-edge now as he had been on hunts. His hands tremored slightly as memories of powerlessness at this man's hands accosted him, and the feelings of being trapped in the concrete confines of the hospital clawed at him. _I can never go back. I won't allow it._Just the thought of it...

"Is that the look of fear I see in your eyes?" Dr. Walter taunted him lightly, looking malicious and intrigued. "With all you've seen, is it actually human beings that terrify you the most?"

"Who's to say that you're human?"

"Oh my, if only I had a recorder on me right now," the doctor said wistfully. "Then we might easily continue these delightful conversations indefinitely. You practically commit yourself merely by existing." He paused, smiling wider. "Tell me, John," he continued engagingly, cruelty sliding between the words, "how hard is it for you to pretend to be _normal_? How difficult is it for you to tread the line between what is **real** and what your mind _tells _you is real?"

"I'm not getting involved with you." The more he let this guy talk, the worse things would become. He was a master at pulling strings, and he would continue to do so until he found a weakness, a chink in the armor, something he could exploit. He was dangerous. Already, the words the doctor had spoken were festering in his mind.

John strode towards the door, set on retreat before something happened. All too quickly he might find himself regarding one of those needles, and next thing he knew, he could be locked inside these walls, unable to help his boys, or himself.

"You were wrong, you know," Dr. Walter said pleasantly, halting his feet upon the carpet. "It was Sam you needed to worry about, not Dean. He was a wealth of information." He _tsked_. "Such a beautifully troubled mind. Ah, the things I could tell you."

"Leave him be," John warned him tersely, barely keeping his hands from clenching into fists. His turned back was ramrod straight with tension.

"It's quite amusing how you put your trust in him, an unknown factor, when the son you raised yourself would have been the better choice. Dean is a harder nut to crack. So loyal. Whereas little Sammy... can you guess where his allegiances lie?"

"Shut up."

"I could barely encourage him to speak of his brother. But you?" He laughed. "Oh, it was like opening a flood gate. Did you really think he could trust you? He _knows_, John. He knows what you did, deep down, and he hates you for it."

"You don't know anything," he said through clenched teeth. "You're just fishing for a reaction."

"Years of dissonance between you, years of hearing his mother speak badly of you and call you unstable, and now this." The younger looking man shook his head and said almost mockingly, "Poor Mary. And poor, frightened little Jessica."

"No."

"No?" Dr. Walter's voice sharpened, "It's in his unconscious memory, John: **Your **Mistake. I've seen it through him, and I saw the guilt smearing your hands."

"No..." _What had happened that night... _John's hands rose to his face, trying to cover his eyes from the scene that was still able to rise up in stunningly gory detail. Memories flashed and hit him like a sucker-punch, only worse. A thousand times worse. _Mary... _The reek of blood had been everywhere. He couldn't have anticipated the events that night.

Blood. Mutilated flesh. The hot red splashes marring his hands and the grass below. He wished things had been different. But given the chance to do everything over, it still would have come to this.

No matter how horrifying it was, he would have made the same decision. But knowing that did not change how much the guilt and sickness ate at him. At times, it was all consuming... the what-if's, the how's the why's, the scenario writing... Though he'd made the right decision, he couldn't escape the torment his mind crafted for him.

As he fought the trap of his own inner hell, he barely noted the doctor's voice say softly in his ear, "Welcome back, Winchester."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:**Chapter title is "Psycho" from Infected Mushroom. (Mostly instrumental). My accompanying selection is "The Other Side" by Pendulum. Both are selected with the latter part of the chapter in mind.

**"The Other Side" - by Pendulum**

_Come on down to the other side,_  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell,<em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are<em>  
><em>to where you belong.<em>

_Come on down to the other side,_  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell,<em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are<em>  
><em>to where you belong.<em>

_There's nothing to fear,_  
><em>Your saviors are here,<em>  
><em>The shift is coming down,<em>  
><em>The shift is coming down,<em>  
><em>The shift is coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>

_You, You look so precious,_  
><em>A diamond in rough,<em>  
><em>And you tried to escape,<em>  
><em>But we're holding on,<em>

_But i can't sleep until this is done,_  
><em>They're in my head<em>  
><em>They're in my soul<em>

_Come on down to the other side,_  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell,<em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are<em>  
><em>to where you belong.<em>

_Come on down to the other side,_  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell,<em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are<em>  
><em>to where you belong.<em>

_We are in your spirit,_  
><em>We're everywhere you turn,<em>  
><em>From the cover undercover,<em>  
><em>The cover undercover,<em>  
><em>In your lover,<em>  
><em>In your brother,<em>  
><em>In your brother,<em>  
><em>The other's,<em>

_You, You look so precious,_  
><em>But now we're on are way,<em>  
><em>And I am falling apart,<em>  
><em>I'll get the waves,<em>

_But i can't sleep until this is done,_  
><em>They're in my head<em>  
><em>They're in my soul<em>

_Through the gates of hell,_  
><em>We know you,<em>

_The shift is coming down,_  
><em>The shift is coming down,<em>  
><em>The shift is coming down,<em>  
><em>The shift is coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>  
><em>Coming down,<em>

_Down to the other side,_  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell,<em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are<em>  
><em>to where you belong.<em>

_Come on down to the other side,_  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell,<em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are<em>  
><em>to where you belong<em>


	22. The Gathering

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

**A/N: **For those of you out there who have given this fic reviews, THANK YOU! I love you. :) Oh, and sorry for the goofy sporadicness of the update schedule. I was trying for doing weeklies, but RL was offering interference. :S

I can't wait for season 7 to come out on dvd so I can watch all of it! Gah. September. (Can't... wait...) BTW, I'm starting a movement - anyone that loves SPN, or namely, Jared and Jensen ('shipped as a couple or even not), put a vinyl "J2" sticker on your car! :D I went to a sign shop and had them do me a custom decal of a red heart with a J2 in it, and ordered a few spares for friends. LOL. The guy probably thought I was nuts. The decal was cheap, like 8 bucks or so, and cheaper the more of them you get. Join the revolution! (Thanks to Misha for coining "J2". He's so freaking awesome/adorable. It almost prompts me to doing a Misha!Rocks! decal or something and further label myself a freak for loving this show and the actors SO MUCH. Feh, it's a slight addiction. I've come to terms. And maybe one day I'll head up the local chapter of SA - Supernaturalics Anonymous.)

((That last statement is a total lie.))

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 21: The Gathering<span>

"Psst, _Dean_."

Dean slanted his eyes to the left, as he walked out of the cafeteria, in the direction of the voice. He saw Sam leaning up against the wall, partially hidden behind the fin of a structural pillar, acting nonchalant and like he was lost in thought. Briefly though, Dean caught the flicked gaze of one intense grey eye.

Jared and Garth were with him, just a step behind, so he said nothing to his brother and pretended not to see him.

"I'll meet you in about an hour," Dean said to Jared.

"Sounds good," the body builder replied. "Hope you're ready, with all the time off you've taken."

"Yeah, yeah, cry me a river." Dean waved his hand dismissively and headed for his room. Once there, he flopped down onto his bed to pass the time as lazily as possible.

About 15 minutes later, the room's door opened and closed softly.

"What took you so long?" Dean said to his brother, not needing to open his eyes to confirm who it was.

"I had to keep from being obvious, smartass. Anyway, aren't you the one who's always harping on about that?"

"Yeah, I guess I am." Dean shrugged. "But acting like we still aren't even speaking to each other is kind of a pain in the ass."

"Again, your idea. You said Garnet was too close to figuring it out."

Dean sighed and sat up, running a hand through his hair. "Well, he is."

"Maybe you should let him draw his conclusions." Sam grabbed a small wooden chair, which seemed to be a new addition to the room, and sat on it while draping his arms across its back. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Ugh," Dean groaned. "You do not want to go there, trust me. In this place, it would be a field day. You thought you got into fights _before_? You ain't seen nothing yet."

"Fine, whatever," Sam said, brushing that aside. "Look, that isn't what I wanted to talk to you about."

Dean quirked a brow and waited for him to continue.

"It's about Dad."

Dean cursed under his breath. "What _now_? Jesus, if he gets to pretend I don't exist, why can't I do the same?"

"I think something happened to him."

Dean was feeling less and less amiable as this conversation went on. It used to be that the loyalty he felt towards his father was absolute, but lately, just a mere mention of the man was like having railroad spikes driven into his nerves. "Why?" he asked in a surly tone.

"You knew I was meeting with him pretty regularly the last week..."

"Yeah." How could he forget something like that which had been bugging the ever-loving hell out of him since he first heard about it?

"Well, it was pretty much at the same time every day. Only yesterday, we were all pulled into that group therapy session... and I haven't heard from him at all after that."

"Did you ask Bobby about it?"

"I haven't had the chance; he's been too busy."

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Maybe Dad finally got sick of hanging around and just took off."

"He would have said something," Sam insisted.

"Would he?" Dean countered with annoyance. "Does that sound like something the father **we **had would do?"

"But-"

"Wasn't he more the type to go missing for days at a time?" Dean interrupted sharply. "Check your memory, Sammy. He did it all the time, without glancing back. He did it while you were there and he did it well after you and mom _left_."

Sam glared daggers at his brother. "Why do you always have to bring up the separation like it was my choice? I was 10! There was nothing I could do about it. If anything, **you're **the one that had a choice, and you made the one you did. But you don't see me raking you over the coals for it."

"Choice?" Dean said sharply. "You call that a choice? There was nothing I could do! You didn't see the way mom was looking at me. She didn't _want_ me, Sam. She wanted to get away from dad, and me too. She told me how I was just like him. She looked at me and the only thing in her head was protecting _you_."

"That's not..." Sam trailed, head sinking to his crossed forearms with a frown on his face.

Dean lay back down on the bed, looking pointedly at the ceiling. "It's the truth."

Sam didn't know what to say. Dean's words mirrored what their dad had told him. But he'd never imagined that his brother already _knew_. "I never understood why she only took me," he said quietly.

"She was afraid," Dean said, just as subdued, but still pissed off. "She couldn't deal with Dad's apparent insanity and she was afraid I had it, too." He rolled his head to look at his brother in challenge. "Just like you are."

Dean contemplated stricken grey eyes and couldn't decide how he felt in response. Just as strongly as he wanted to see this kind of hurt response to _his_hurt, he also wanted to erase it, to tell Sam it was okay, that he'd get over it eventually and they'd be fine. But he said nothing.

Sam looked away, sullenly, then changed the subject. "Are you going to help me find out what happened to dad, or not?"

"When have I ever refused you?"

* * *

><p>"Boys," a harried Dr. Singer said, as they'd finally cornered him in his office a few hours later, "I don't know what to tell you. I haven't seen him."<p>

"Are you sure?" Sam said urgently. "Not since the last time I met with him?"

"No, dammit, not since then!" the older man said, losing his patience. "What, do you think I'm going senile?"

"No, sir," Sam said cordially, beating a hasty verbal retreat.

"Now quit bothering me with stuff like this," the psychiatrist said shortly. "Can't you see I'm up to my eyeballs in alligators here?" He shook his head as he left his office, muttering, "never seen so many patients going haywire like this all at the same damn time."

* * *

><p>"Dean," Sam said later, after returning to Dean's assigned room. "Even Bobby thinks all the patients freaking out is strange. It can't be coincidence."<p>

"Maybe," Dean replied, still not entirely sold on the idea.

"It's more plausible than your talk of ghosts in the basement."

"What?" Dean protested. "You think conspiracy theories make more sense than the supernatural? You're nuts."

"Fine, whatever. Just back me up in this, and I'll back you up on your monster hunts or whatever."

"Bitch," Dean muttered. "Fine. What now, fearless leader?"

"Dad's here somewhere, I'm sure of it."

"You think he was abducted?" Dean raised a brow. "Why?"

"He said something to me about a doctor he had while he was in the state hospital, that he thought the guy might be working here. It sounded like the man was unhinged."

"Pfft. That could be anyone here, except Singer and maybe Dimitri. Don't you know it's mostly crazy people who go into psychiatry? Normal people don't usually pay much attention to it."

"Come on, Dean," Sam said shortly. "Just be serious and help me out."

"I _am _being serious," he protested, then muttered, "you obviously haven't been here long enough." He shook his head as if trying to dispel his irritation. "Look, was there anything else he said? Like a name? Or did he give a description?"

"Nothing comes to mind. He was pretty cryptic about it."

"Surprise, surprise," Dean laughed sarcastically.

"How is it," Sam said in clipped tones, "that in less than one week you seem to hate him more than I ever did in my entire life? _**I'm**_ the one that should be sarcastic about his being a font of information. He never told me _anything _that was going on. You both kept me in the dark every chance you got. _**I **_should be the one saying 'he probably just said "Piss on it" and went back home.' _You're_ supposed to be the one telling me to shut up and to just help you find the bastard. _Why aren't you?_"

"Maybe I'm tired of playing peacemaker," Dean said, face betraying no emotion at all as he lay on the bed like he was lounging at the beach, eyes closed. "Our family seems good at tearing itself apart. Who am I to stop it?"

A sharp backhand across Dean's face had him jumping up and angry in an instant. "Dammit, Sam, what the hell was that for?" he shouted as he held a hand to his blazing cheek.

Sam was staring back at him with a singularly disgusted look. "Just shut up, okay? You still have me, and you still have Dad. Or, you _would_ if you would get off your ass and _help _me."

"I have to meet up with Jared first," Dean muttered crossly, still holding his throbbing cheek. "If that's okay with you, Imperial Ruler of Everything?"

"I'm going with you."

"What for?" Dean really wanted to pay his brother back for that unexpected strike, as it had startled the crap out of him **and** it had been unwarranted. His hands were twitching to start a fight. It would be better if he could just cool his temper by lifting some weights. _Without_ his brother. But sometimes it seemed that Sam just needed to be beaten back in line. Who was _he _to start spouting off about the integrity of family all of a sudden?

"To work out," Sam said stubbornly. "Plus, I have a standing invite from your friend."

"So we're just going to ditch the 'not talking in public' thing? We're suddenly going to be play the best-friends-we-never-were card again?"

"Yeah," Sam said angrily, likely responding to his sarcastic tone. "Or maybe we'll just go ahead and make it obvious we're involved. Fuck them. No one knows our history. And if they figure it out, maybe I'm ready to deal with the fights. I'm sick of skulking around."

Dean leaned back on his hands, regarding his brother critically. "You know, you're kind of sexy when you're pissed off."

Sam groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. "Dean, I was being serious," he said with tired exasperation.

"I know."

He got up off the bed and stole a quick kiss, furthering Sam's frustration while also deflating his anger. "Look, just let me go work out with the meathead, and I promise to help you look for dad afterwards, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay." Sam didn't look happy, but at least he wasn't pissed off anymore and looking like he was going to do something stupid.

* * *

><p>'Waiting' and 'boredom' were two things Sam was never very good at dealing with, so while Dean was wasting time making himself look pretty, he had a plan to do something productive.<p>

Dean left the room first, as it was almost time for him to meet his gym buddy, and Sam waited, as agreed, so he could leave a few minutes later. Luckily for him, Dean left his jacket behind.

Sam picked up the leather garment, palpating and searching it thoroughly. He was looking for something very specific. This, he'd decided, was the only logical place for it to be. Dean was crafty and resourceful. He'd keep important tools close at hand, hidden, but ready when needed. Sam wasn't sure why the staff here let him wear the jacket in the first place, but they probably supposed there wasn't much harm in it. Especially if his brother had made a big enough deal out of it that they would rather give in, so as not to be bothered.

Originally, he'd thought Dean had been carrying the lock picks in his pocket, brought along specially for the trip to the basement. But he'd already searched the room, finding nothing, before he realized the obvious.

"Aha, there you are," he said to himself as he discovered the picks hidden in the lining of the jacket. He remembered the type of lock he'd be needing these for and took only the picks he deemed useful. It had been years, of course, since their dad had shown them how to lock pick, but he hoped it would be much like riding a bicycle and that it would all come back to him.

He grabbed one of the small salt shakers that was hidden in the dresser drawers, mostly to shut up the Dean in his head.

"Pfft. Ghosts." It was ridiculous. Insane, really. _Yeah, I said it. __**Insane**__. _He could say it in his head at least. Because he certainly wouldn't be voicing that particular thought aloud any more, not with the pained, betrayed look Dean would be shooting his way. Not to mention the fight that would likely ensue. He'd rather avoid more landmines like that, thank you.

He stowed his spoils in the pockets of his pants. He would just have to hope no one stopped him or patted him down. Ideally, he would have had some way to conceal such items... really, Dean's jacket was perfect, only it would gain too much attention. He hadn't seen anyone else wearing anything like it. If he were to suddenly walk around wearing it, it would scream suspicious. Not to mention making people wonder why he was wearing _Dean's _jacket, and why Dean was allowing him to. He had the feeling that anyone trying to do such a thing without Dean's 'okay' would be looking like they needed a stretcher and more than a bottle of pain killers to fix them up again.

Sam stealthily made his way down to the basement, on guard, surprisingly not encountering any orderlies or much of anyone. It was almost too easy. It put him more on edge than if he'd turned a corner and had to explain to a staff member just where in the hell he was going. Hadn't it been their father who'd taught them that when everything looked like it is going well, to expect the worst?

_Dad... I hope you're okay._

He still had mixed feelings over their father. He couldn't reconcile the love mixed with frustration and anger he'd had as a child with the confusion, panic and fear he'd had just a few short months ago at the time of the accident. He didn't know what was what. Meeting with his father now... he didn't seem malicious or capable of the atrocity that occurred that day. But he was still a stubborn, militant man who rubbed him the wrong way and he still seemed to be keeping secrets. How much of his negative feelings were the same old things he was used to, and how much were related to the memory of his father's face at the scene of the crime? How much did he trust the man? How much _should _he?

It was odd then, wasn't it? That Dean's reluctance and animosity for their father was fueling his own determination to find him? The more Dean fought him on it, the more he felt it was the right thing to do.

The basement was cold and dank.

It was also dark. He would have to pick the lock by feel. The flashlight he was coming to retrieve was on the other side of this door, and he didn't have another. Besides, there were windows on the other side, and it was still broad daylight out, so he'd be able to see well enough to find it.

The lock in his hands was cold as well, if not moreso than the room. It was a simple padlock, one of the first types he'd been taught to pick. He should be able to remember how to do this without too much trouble.

The hair raised on the back of his neck as he worked. He looked up into the darkness, but he could see nothing. Even with his eyes almost adjusted now to the lack of light, the edges and corners of the basement were ink black. He renewed his focus on the lock, banishing the ridiculous urge to shake some salt out in an arc behind him, covering his flank. There was nothing down here. It was just the atmosphere of the place tweaking his imagination.

Besides, Dean hadn't seemed too concerned about this area being haunted or whatever. Or was that merely because they'd been fighting at the time?

Thankfully, he won the battle with the lock before his mind went into overdrive and started assuring him that he was also hearing whispers just behind the back of his head.

Creepy.

It was almost like how he felt about the infirmary. He really didn't like that place.

He carefully removed the chain from the door and laid it aside, pocketing the lock so that no one could accidentally lock him inside.

Taking a deep breath, he swung one of the doors open and went in.

A feeling of misgiving swept through him as he made his way through the low-ceilinged tunnel. Last time, he'd been so intent on following his brother and seeing what he was up to, that he hadn't had time to really appreciate the freakish ambiance of this place with its white dingy walls, the claustrophobic nature of the glass block 'windows', and the smell of rodent excrement. The large pipes running the length of the corridor up at the ceiling contributed to homey feel.

_What had possessed Dean to come down here in the first place_? he wondered with irritation. If this had been a horror flick, it would have been the classic lamb to the slaughter scenario. So Dean was convinced that there were ghosts down here that needed purging. Great. And what else might be down here? And why in God's name had Dean dropped the goddamn flashlight? Maybe he was convinced that no one would come down here and find it, but Sam didn't like to take the chance. In his short stay here, it looked like many of the staff took any chance they could to punish Winchesters, even for minute infractions. Finding a flashlight, said to belong to one Dean Winchester, in an off-limits area that even had a lock to protect it? It didn't bode well.

_Even though I'm known here as Campbell, it certainly seems like _someone_ must know I'm a Winchester and is affording me the same treatment._

He and Dean seemed to be given the blame more often than the benefit of the doubt, even when other instigators were clear.

Sam stopped suddenly, sighting the salt line his brother had drawn from one side of the hallway to the other. It was dim, but it looked like the line was disturbed. He crouched down for a closer look. Two furrows marred it, drawn diagonally through the salt like the casual pass of fingers testing the substance.

Someone had been here.

The knowledge chilled him for some reason.

Sam looked deeper down the corridor, wondering what the rank darkness and its rooms had in store. Real danger? Manufactured fear? He had the urge to fix the salt line, but if whomever had been here before returned... his presence here would be noted. He would be leaving them a sign.

He rose, and looked to the gaping black doorway on the left.

_'Did you see it?'_ he could remember the quality of Dean's rushed voice, the urgency that had infused it after his brother had supposedly encountered a ghost. _'We need to get out of here. Now.'_

Standing here just now... he could almost feel the sinister energy in the air. The malcontent.

So, was it all in Dean's head? Or was it real? If he were to walk into that room, would he see what Dean saw? Or would he see nothing, because it didn't exist? Perhaps even his brain might fabricate something to freak him out, by sight or sound, but that wouldn't make it authentic. It wouldn't mean the supernatural existed. It would just validate the fact that humans are highly suggestible creatures.

His jaw set with determination, he stepped over the salt line. Dean would be barking mad at him for this.

Was he really taking his life in his hands? Was he?

_I need to know if it's real._

_I have to know._

If Dean was right, somehow...

If their father was right...

Well, that would change everything, wouldn't it?

He turned to the room and with militant strides, entered its confines. Immediately, he could feel the hair raise upon his arms. Broken whispers seemed to slither around him like dry leaves.

_It's not proof._

The room was a mess of junk. On the other end was a wooden chair that looked disturbingly like an electric chair. He moved closer and smelled lighter fluid. The chair was charred, like it had been burned, but was still intact. Had Dean done this?

He made his way back out of the room, and yet he did not encounter what his brother seemed to have seen last time.

Walking just outside the room, he stood still, getting his bearings. He frowned. This wasn't right. He and Dean had moved down the hall several paces before the salt line had been drawn, which meant...

"That wasn't the room," he said softly, looking to his left where another door lay gaping wide not that far away.

The feeling of foreboding intensified greatly.

He turned and stared hard, contemplating his options. He wasn't one to work himself up over nothing. Was there really something here that he was reacting to? He actually felt a visceral aversion to entering that room. One that was surprisingly strong.

What had Dean seen? He'd never said.

_And if I were to see the same thing... if Dean confirmed it, without me saying a word to describe it... I would know, then, wouldn't I?_

He started walking towards the room and he could practically hear Dean cursing him out for his recklessness. _Shut up. I have the salt, if you're right._ Indeed, his hand was fisted about the salt shaker in his pocket. He brought it out into the open. _There, happy?_he thought at him.

When he'd encountered Dean down here in those first moments, his brother had jumped a mile high at his presence and then had been barking out instructions like a general. He'd seemed somewhat mad, high on adrenaline. He would have said that Dean might have been scared, but honestly, his brother didn't seem to _**have **_a properly scared mode.

_What did you see?_

If it was all in his head, it had to have been a damn good hallucination to elicit such a response. Dean was practically unflappable.

He stood at the doorway to the room. Everything in him was telling him to let it be, to not go in. Everything except the skeptic in him and the yen he had for knowing the truth.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Garnet, you seen Sam around?" Dean asked his friend, finding him holed up in the library by himself. He was reading a magazine. Dean didn't bother to see what kind.<p>

The dark-haired youth's eyes slanted at him. "Maybe. Why?"

It had been at least an hour after he'd finished his training session with Jared and Sam was nowhere to be found. He'd even taken a long shower, killing some time waiting for him to turn up somewhere, but there was no sign of his little brother.

"You gonna tell me?" Dean asked. "Or are you hoping for some kind of trade?"

Garnet crossed his arms in a surly fashion and tilted back in his chair. He was still pissed at Dean for hiding 'something' from him, although it seemed that he hadn't figured out what that something was. Dean didn't plan on enlightening him. "What do you have that I could possibly want?"

"My abundant charm?"

"Feh," Garnet almost laughed. "Useless."

"Okay," Dean said, grabbing a chair for himself and resting his elbows heavily upon the table. "What will it take for you to stop being pissed at me?"

"Who says I'm pissed?" Garnet said flatly, raising the magazine back up, dark eyes once more skimming its contents. "That would imply I gave a fuck."

"I hate to break your little soap bubble, but it's obvious you do give a fuck or you wouldn't be acting like such a little prick."

Garnet turned a page and gave the impression of raising an eyebrow, although his expression didn't much change. "So now you're implying I'm of inadequate stature? Or were you being more figurative?"

Dean could see that this was going nowhere. "You're pissed about something involving Sam, right?"

Garnet turned another page. "What was your first clue?"

"I thought you were cool with him?"

Garnet gave him a scathing look. "If you aren't going to say anything useful, stop wasting my time."

Dean let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright." He really had wanted to avoid this, but... "You're right, we're involved. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it."

"Well, good for you. Tell me something I don't know."

"Dammit, Garnet, _what_? What is it that you want me to say?"

Garnet closed his magazine with a sour expression and regarded Dean with blank eyes. "You're not stupid. In fact, you're quite observant. I think you already know, and you're hoping to see with how much you can get away with by playing dumb."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Why are you such a pain in the ass?"

"Intelligence is the curse I must bear. It comes with a price."

Dean leaned across the table and said in a lowered voice, "Okay, listen. I know you're mad because you think I've been lying about things and keeping secrets. I wouldn't, but there is something going on in this place. There's something Sam's caught wind of, and I see it too. We're trying to lay low and not attract attention." He wasn't sure if feeding his Native American friend this sort of information, this _other _truth would tame the beast of his feeling slighted. "The more people that know Sam and I are involved, the more of a liability it is. You do realize that the number of times I've been taken to Solitary since he got here is unprecedented? Someone is dishing out special treatment. I just don't know _why_."

Garnet looked at him long and hard. "It's something **else **that you don't want to tell me, isn't it?"

Dean just stared back at him, showing nothing.

Garnet sighed. "But it's something you aren't going to tell anyone of your own volition." He regarded Dean with a bland expression. "Well, I suppose I'll let you slide with what you've said already. We all have secrets we'd rather take to the grave."

Dean stuck out his hand. "Back to normal?"

Garnet regarded his hand and tossed his head in mock aversion. "How do I know where on Campbell _that's _been?"

"Nowhere you didn't just imagine. Now let's shake on this."

Garnet clasped his hand. "Just curious, but am I being held to secrecy on anything I just heard?"

"I'm sure all of you know about Sam and discussed it at length. But I'm not openly admitting anything. Plausible deniability."

"Coward," Garnet challenged with a leer.

Dean clasped his hand harder, in a crushing grip. "You wanna say that to my face?" he drawled.

Garnet leaned close. "You keep holding my hand like this, and folks are gonna talk," he taunted.

"Wouldn't you just love to be one of my conquests?" he bantered back with a taunting smile. "It would do wonders for your reputation."

"Please," Garnet scoffed gracefully, leaning back and releasing his hand. "I don't do crazies."

At that moment, a small group of residents entered the library, within hearing range. They were talking amongst themselves, not paying the two of them much attention. Once they'd passed, Garnet said, "I saw him heading below, like he was going to the basement. He knows it's locked, right? What would he go down there for?"

Dean shrugged and lightly smacked the side of Garnet's cheek playfully. "Thanks a million."

He took his time leaving the library, not wanting to look like he was in a rush, but the same question Garnet had asked was rattling around in his own head. What would Sam go down there for?

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:**Chapter title is from the song "The Gathering" by Infected Mushroom. It was what I found myself listening to almost on repeat as Sam was in the basement area and further on.

(I also think of the title as a kind of joke - Sam had been set on his self-assigned mission for 'gathering' the flashlight Dean had left behind down there. :P)


	23. Return of the Shadows

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

**A/N:**Sorry for the delay in updating. I was moving.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 22: Return of the Shadows<span>

Dean made a beeline for the basement. He must've had fantastic timing, because no one got in his way.

It was dark and uninviting in there, as usual. "Sam?" he whispered loudly. "Sam?" There was no response. He couldn't really see very well to scan the room. But if Sam was here, he'd answer.

Dean reached into his pocket for his lighter. Once he got closer to where the metal doors that barred the corridor ought to be, he flicked a flame into existence. About four paces to his left was the door. So, he was a little bit off. Upon inspection, the chain was in place. So was the padlock.

He let the light go out, as it was burning his thumb, and chewed the inside of his lip in thought. Sam couldn't have locked himself in. So either someone else locked him in, or he just wasn't here.

Dean headed back to his room for his tools. It wasn't likely that anyone would have been down there to lock an open door, but he couldn't be too careful. On the off chance that Sam hadn't thought to take the lock with him, if he'd been stupid enough to go through those doors in the_ first _place, and someone had locked things back up... Well, he had to be certain. In any case, he hadn't found Sam to be anywhere else.

Once he got to the room he shared with Ed, he immediately went to his jacket which had been left out upon his bed. Now that he thought about it, the position of it seemed different than the one it had been in when he left Sam here a few hours ago._ Did he...? _He scowled and checked his lock picks. Several were missing. "Sonnuva-"

"Dean?" The door to the closet moved back, startling the crap out of him.

He whipped around and caught a glimpse Sam's face from around the edge. He was sitting in the closet, Indian-style, and his skin looked ashen.

"Sam?" Dean went to the closet and crouched down. "What the hell are you doing in there?"

"I didn't want anyone to know I was here," he said vaguely.

"Well, you can come out now." Dean was perplexed.

"Dean," Sam said, his voice sounding a little strange. "What exactly did you see in the corridor? When I followed you down to the basement?"

Dean gave him a suspicious look. "Why?" He wasn't really up for more ridicule, if that's where this was headed. Plus, he was pissed that Sam had taken his things, planning to do something potentially stupid on his own. And WHY was he in the closet for godsakes? Unless- "Did you go down to the basement?" he asked sharply, taking Sam by the shoulders. "Did you go beyond the doors?"

Sam nodded, incensing him.

"Why would you _**do**_ that?" he hissed. _It's dangerous. Especially since you don't believe there's anything there that could hurt you. Your ignorance could get you killed! _"We were trying to avoid suspicion. What if someone saw you?"

"I was trying to get the flashlight," he said in a dull voice. "You left it there and someone could've found it."

Well, there was some merit in that. He'd regretted leaving it there, knowing it could be tied to him if someone happened to find it. But he'd been a little too distracted by his close encounter with a pissed off spirit who'd had blood foaming from her tongueless mouth to try harder to find it. Besides, it would have been better to retrieve it himself, or at least they might have gone together. What would Sam have done if he suddenly found himself in a situation like that? It could have gutted him.

Suddenly, an explanation for Sam's pallor really struck him. _Wait a second..._

"Did you see something, Sammy?" he accused his brother, in the same tone as if he were saying_ 'Are you a fucking moron?'_.

Sam nodded. "Maybe," he said vaguely. "Tell me what you saw. You have to say it first or I won't know for sure."

Dean thought back. "Straightjacket. Pretty thing, except for the foaming at the mouth. Oh, and I wasn't really digging the lack of tongue... Heh, now _that's_ one muscle I'd say is _sorely _underappreciated for what it can do." He winked, the gesture being almost as natural on him as breathing.

Sam, if possible, went even whiter. "I can't believe you're making jokes about this," he said weakly, shaking his head.

"Wait, you saw it?" Dean snapped to attention then, all joking aside. He wasn't sure if he was pissed off at Sam for putting himself in danger or excited that he now had proof to rub in his brother's skeptical little face. "What happened? What did you do when it appeared?"

"I... uh..." Sam looked sort of uncomfortable. "I shook a salt shaker in its face."

Dean grabbed him by the arm, hauling him out of the closet, then smacked him on the back of the head, kind of hard. He felt elated and pissed at the same time. "I fucking _told _you I wasn't crazy!" he hissed with a glare. "But nooo, you just had to go put yourself in jeopardy trying to prove a point. You know that the jack-in-the-box thing that Medusa down there does would be the_ least _of your worries? She could easily have-"

"Alright, alright! I'm sorry, okay?" Sam protested, rubbing a protective hand over his abused cranium, half guarding in case Dean decided to whap him upside the head again. "How was I supposed to know?

"Because I _told _you?"

"Well it sounds mental," Sam said defensively, if not a little sulkily. "_It does._"

Dean looked at him critically. "She scared the shit out of you... yet you're actually _disappointed _that you were wrong."

"Am not," Sam said sullenly, pulling away from him. Dean was starting to irritate him. He might have had a point, _**maybe**_, but he didn't need to be so fucking obnoxious about it.

"You're actually _sulking_ over being wrong," Dean said incredulously. He laughed. "_Surely '_Being Wrong' has happened to you before?" he said somewhat mockingly, words heavy with sarcasm. "This couldn't _**possibly **_be the first time-?"

"Shut up, Dean." Sam's voice sounded testy and short as he cut him off.

"Or did mom have you believing you were as perfect as she thought herself to be?"

"Dammit, Dean!" Sam said, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. "_Stop it. _I'm just having a hard time adjusting to all this being **real **all of a sudden."

"You've _known_ it was real!" Dean pried the hand from his shirt. "You just turned your back on it because you didn't want to deal with it. _Sound familiar?_"

Sam glared daggers at him. "Stop being an asshole. I didn't turn my back on you, I _looked _for you. And where were you, with all of that freedom you had? I certainly didn't see you come knocking at my door."

"I was busily getting myself committed, apparently," Dean said sweetly, razors underlying the obnoxious tone. "Besides," he continued, something of a shadow touching his words as he dropped the sarcasm, "it would have complicated things for you."

Dean couldn't help his voice turning a bit self-deprecating. It was obvious that Sam had been living a streamlined life. He had no room for things that were inconvenient or might slow him down. It was his mother's training, preparing him for success. What use would Sam have had for his no-good brother who couldn't forget about him no matter what he did? She must've known somehow that they were too close even as children and that something like this might happen. _She must be rolling in her grave right now._

"Maybe I needed some complications in my life," Sam said stubbornly, turning that soulful, penetrating gaze on him.

Dean stared back, transfixed. Damn, but that look always shot him through the heart and made him ache. It intensified sharply as Sam leaned in close, then tentatively brushed lips against his._ Jesus god, I still think this is wrong and yet I want it so much. _How could he describe the electricity that ran through him as that soft, firm mouth joined his, or the feelings that were inspired by the parting of their lips and by the hot thrust of Sam's increasingly erotic tongue?

It was heaven and hell in the same moment.

Bliss and burning. Every sweet little touch was entrenching desire within his being, making him ravenous.

He ran his hands down Sam's back as he gave in to the kiss, and over the curve of his ass, wanting to feel more of him as he tasted him. He wanted to lose himself in this, in the hard press of hips and the fierce sense of belonging that flared to life when they were close. Sam sighed into his mouth, kissing him more passionately and wrapping strong arms around him.

Dean hadn't consciously registered moving towards the bed until they fell upon it, limbs twining as their hips ground against each others. Really, he was okay with that. He was sort of past the whole 'thinking things through rationally' mentality at the moment anyway. If he hadn't been, he might have worried more about who could walk in on them instead of wondering how Sam managed to have such an array of intensely sexy looks, like the one he was wearing now, when life with mom had to have been like a lifetime initiation into the boy scouts. Not to mention, Sam managed to look so damn innocent most of the time. You'd never even entertain the thought that he would...

He got distracted as Sam hooked a leg through his and rolled them over, his grey eyes dark with arousal.

Would be like... he was now...

Sam was totally wrecking and destroying his train of thought into mangled rubble as he began dragging his pants slowly down off his hips, kissing skin along the way and, finally, going down on him.

The first slide of Sam's hot mouth upon his hardened flesh pulled a moan from his mouth that was loud enough to surprise him. _Jesus god that feels incredible._The flicking of a naughty tongue soon had his body thrumming and his back starting to arch.

He groaned, sliding a hand into Sam's soft wavy hair. Sam smoothed a hand up his inner thigh, stroking it and making him shudder.

This was not going to be his best showing, the way things were going. "Sam, that's enough," he said in a lust-choked voice. "Any more and I'm going to..."

"What's that?" Sam said innocently, stopping for the moment. He hiked Dean's thigh up, spreading it wide and began laying kisses along it. Hot, unbelievably sexy kisses. He was fighting dirty. "What happened to Mr. _Is-that-all-the-stamina-you've-got_?"

Dean exhaled, "He's currently getting the best fellatio of his life by some smartass kid."

"That good, huh?" Sam taunted lightly, his voice sounding a little breathless and very turned on. He nuzzled the skin at the apex of Dean's leg as he took Dean's arousal in hand, then began laying kisses up the length of it, making Dean shudder hard with the light touches.

"What possessed you to- _Uhnn!_" Dean was cut off by his own moan of pleasure as Sam's mouth enveloped him once more in warm, debilitating heat. Funny, he never really thought of himself as being very vocal before. In fact, he hardly recognized the sounds as being his own, being way too distracted by everything Sam was doing to him.

Suddenly, the pressure upon his hardened flesh increased dramatically, just as one of Sam's hands had taken to roving his body, making his eyes roll back in his head. Fingertips trailed over his stomach and across his chest, plucking a nipple so firmly that it almost hurt. The jolt of it shot straight to his groin. _God.. damn..._

The reaction seemed to encourage his brother, who took that moment to forcibly cant his hips up, and then that roving hand was sliding under his ass; long fingers gripping the flesh of it, squeezing almost harshly, then releasing in time to the sucking pressure upon his member, like some kind of carnal massage. He shuddered, thrusting forward with the undulating pull of those hands. He could feel nails, sometimes, digging in, sharpening his pleasure.

He fisted the sheets in one hand while the other tightened in his brother's hair. _God, yes. _Finally, with a panted gasp and muttered curse, he came.

When had innocent little Sammy learned to be a master of the unspoken arts? How much experience did he _have _behind that quiet, empathetic smile?

Sam slid up his body, looking pleased with himself and a little devilish as his mussed hair fell into his eyes. He languidly wiped a hand across his full lips, though there was nothing visible to be wiped away.

"Did you- ?" Dean asked in surprise. Had he swallowed? For some reason, the thought of that made his face flush, totally taking him off guard.

Sam's eyes were laughing at him. "Wasn't as bad as I thought. Wanna taste?"

"Not particularly," Dean protested, but even so, he couldn't resist as Sam surged up to meet his lips with heated, sexily roughened ones. He felt every line of Sam's body against his own and the coiled power in his muscles as he moved to capture his kiss. He could taste himself in the meshing of their mouths and, despite his reservations, it only served to turn him on.

He rolled Sam over, pressing him into the bed. "I'm going to have to watch out for you," he said against his lips, feeling the press of Sam's arousal against his hip. He knew by the way Sam's mouth was hunting his, that he must be starting to feel desperate for release. He basked in the intensity of it, feeling it echoed in the body beneath his. It was a powerful thing to be in control of, amplified by every additional moment he held off from continuing. "You've become quite dangerous," he murmured in his brother's ear, stalling just a minute more and thrilling to the tension of frustration that ran through him.

He rolled his hips then, grinding against hard flesh, making his brother moan and toss his head back. Such a reaction didn't leave him unaffected either. He began nuzzling Sam's throat as he repeated the motion, loving the choked noise Sam made.

"Ugnnn, Dean," he pleaded, "just... please..."

"Always all of these demands," Dean said ruefully, though it was difficult to keep his voice steady and slightly mocking. He was already being swept away again. So when he rocked his hips against his brother's more quickly, it was partly because he couldn't help but do it.

Damn them for not having their own room. This would be... _so..._ much easier... _Ahhh..._

No roommates to fool around with. No worries about who saw who in the buff. And then there wouldn't be such a stigma on going all the way, either. Everything would be so much simpler. They could even sleep in the same bed if they wanted, though the beds weren't all that big.

"Dean," Sam moaned, hands raking his back as Dean palmed him in his hand and stroked him hard. "_Yes..._"

_God, his voice sounds so amazing like that. _It was about enough to tip him over the edge. Again. "Where _did_my innocent little brother go?" he wondered aloud, though the words were barely discernible within his panted breaths. He certainly wasn't present here, in Sam's lust-clouded eyes, his enticing mouth, or flushing skin. This was someone different, someone who positively exuded sex, someone that he couldn't help but give into.

Maybe it was time to let go of that antiquated vision of his brother.

* * *

><p><em>'Brother'? <em>the person at Dean's door repeated mentally in shock. Had he heard that right?

"Oh, but who should I tell?" the person wrung their hands briefly. Because it went without saying, that someone should hear news such as this. "Who to tell, who to tell?"

He heard a muffled cry of completion that would have made most people blush full-body, and promptly scuttled from the scene. The room's occupants would be none the wiser to his presence.

* * *

><p>"I want you to go back..." Dr. Walter's modulated voice drifted across the space of the tiny room. "Months ago... In California..."<p>

"No," the older, dark-haired man uttered, his voice sounding strange and devoid of emotion as if he were talking in his sleep.

"Tell me about the last time you saw her, your wife," the doctor persisted gently.

"...don't want to." The patient's teeth clenched and he began exhibiting small signs of distress.

"It was not a request," the bearded man reprimanded in light, soothing tones. "But we can come back to that. You live in Kansas, correct?"

"Yes." This response came easier.

"Have you lived there a long time?"

"Yes," the reclining man's disassociated voice said without inflection. "More than 20 years." The distraction Dr. Walter employed was working and distress had nearly faded from him once more.

"Were you happy there?"

"Yes," came the prompt answer. Then, a confused, "...no."

"You aren't sure?" Dr. Walter queried, biding his time for the return to his real questioning. He was in no rush. Time was something he had in ample amounts just now.

He lifted his gold, metallic pen to capture a bit of light, tilting it so that the brightness moved across its shining surface. He felt very pleased as he relaxed in his chair, pulling at the strings in this man's drug-addled psyche. It was a delightful hobby. _This_, he would always make time for, and now the rules had even changed to suit him better. "Were there problems at home?"

His patient was silent.

Confusion was staying his tongue; it was due to denial.

Dr. Walter nodded to himself tried a different angle. "How did you feel about your boys? Did you have a good relationship with them?"

"We got along well enough," came the monochromatic reply.

"Which one was your favorite?"

There was a long pause.

"John?" the doctor prompted, injecting some sternness into his voice. "Answer the question. Which one was your favorite?" Medication could be a tricky thing. At once, it could loosen the tongue, or induce states of altered consciousness, perfect for such conversations as these which were riddled with secrets. A drawback, however was how the mind could sometimes lose itself and speech could cease or instead become nearly indecipherable ramblings. It was a science, really, and every person required a different 'cocktail', as the elder Winchester boy had snidely put it many times before. It was a perfect accessory to his... natural talents.

"Sammy and I didn't see eye to eye, even when he was young," John's voice said vacantly, his mind following a slightly different path than had been lain out for him. Dr. Walter patiently waited for him to finish speaking before attempting to redirect him once more. He could work with anything short of catatonia. "Dean was a good son. Did what he was told. I could count on him. Sammy listened to him. Kept him safe."

"You felt your younger son needed more protecting? Why?"

"He was young." There was a thread of confused resistance in the response. A delicate dissonance that let him know that even his patient didn't believe what he was saying on all levels of consciousness.

"That isn't the reason, though, is it, John?" He was asking the question, but he knew the answer. "Why didn't you train them both the same?

"I can't say."

"Was it because you favored your youngest and wanted to protect him?" He waited a moment after the suggestion, noting no response. "Or was it because you feared his inevitable questions, the same prying questions that your wife had set before you?"

John's mouth had compressed into a thin line.

"Dean never questioned you," he stated, a slight derisiveness to his tone, mocking the allegiance. "He took in everything you taught him, didn't he? He believed in you and believed in what you did. Whereas Sam..." he trailed, "he was too much like your wife. He wouldn't have _understood_. He wouldn't have _**believed**_. He would rather think, like she did, that you were out of your mind."

"Sammy was a good kid," his patient said almost defensively, though he had no fire to his voice; he was latching on to things that were simpler for him to process in this state. He was well and truly subdued, the product of copious amounts of sedatives and other things. It was genius at work. John would not even recall the better part of this later on, though the thoughts and feelings inspired here would remain.

He never left anything to incriminate himself. He was always meticulous. Careful.

"You couldn't bear to have one of your sons question and undermine you. You feared it, and that fear made you angry." The key was to reach a stage where words poured out in response to his questions and statements, almost without thought. To do this, a false state of disassociation was required, a severing of thought and emotion. Achieving it and reaping the rewards was sometimes like pulling the wings off of a fly. Some of them struggled against it so piteously. Their minds whirred frantically, but the cogs were all out of place.

"He looked up to Dean," John struggled to get out. "I knew Dean could protect him. He listened to him. Didn't question him." The sentences were staccato, having none of the eloquence of higher speech or a sense of pause. Patients with dementia sometimes exhibited this as their minds caved under the pressure of degenerating tissue.

"Who was your wife's favorite, John?"

"...it used to be Dean." A flicker of distress manifested around his mouth. He was teetering on the edge of emotion, but hadn't fallen back into it. His subconscious didn't know where to find him, it was reacting subtly but was still quite lost.

"And what happened?"

"I don't know." There was a faint shiftiness to his words.

"You _do _know," Dr. Walter insisted quietly, tapping the pen to his lips. "Your boys both told me about the day she left. It was years in the making."

"She was afraid."

"And?" Seeking the truth was like drilling for oil. Layers upon layers of sediment had to give way and, of course, you had to know a likely place to begin.

"I'd been lying to her. Hunting. She felt betrayed. Dean had been covering for me." The words were falling free like a landslide. "She felt she'd lost him already. Sammy was all she had left -she wanted to protect him at least. She did what she felt she had to." The words stopped suddenly like the snapping shut of a trap and there was silence.

Dr. Walter waited a few moments, biding his time before continuing. "You were angry, weren't you?" he suggested invasively. "For years."

"...Yes."

"Driven mad by grief and guilt..."

"Yes."

"What were you doing that day, so far from home?" He made sure to keep his voice pleasant and steady, though he felt an urgency now that he'd finally arrived at the path he sought. _This _is where his interests could be sated in earnest. "Had you gone to see Mary one last time? Had you wanted to even the score?"

John's brow furrowed at the suggestion. His eyes remained closed. "There was a phone call," he said by way of disagreement. "Unprecedented... She called me. I was in town following a lead on a hunt."

"Why did she call you?"

"There was so much blood."

"Why did she call you?" Dr. Walter repeated gently.

"Sam's girl, the only one he'd ever wanted to introduce," John said, his words rushing again in fits. His speech was expanding again as well, becoming more structured and complex as the line between logical thought and emotion was toed in the retelling. "She thought they might get married. She told me where they were all meeting, so I could come if I wanted." A deep frown marred his face. "It took me off guard. I didn't know why she would invite me like that. I refused."

"But you showed up at the park anyway."

"Yes." His patient was coming back to himself more and more, his personality and thought processes beginning to show upon the blank canvas of his face, but his mind was still rolled under at the moment. It was a near perfect state.

"And they were attacked."

"Yes."

"By you." He said this suggestion with a ring of finality, of inescapable truth.

John's face contorted. "No."

Dr. Walter leaned forward in his chair. This is what he had been waiting for. This was the conflict and inner turmoil that made exhilaration seep into his veins. "The victims sustained multiple knife wounds and had also been battered." He spoke slowly so as not to overwhelm his patient's capacity to take his words in. "The intimacy of the violence suggests a crime of passion," he said with Academian distance as he implied once more that John Winchester was suspect. "The reports say that the surviving victim had been hit first, to enable the women to be attacked and killed without contest." He paused as if in contemplation of what he said next. "Was the killer really sloppy enough to leave the boy alive by accident? Or, perhaps, he was left alive on purpose?"

"It wasn't me." The agitation was back, running tension down his patient's body and setting his jaw.

"With Mary gone, and the threat of a fiancée out of the way, you would be able to bring Sam back home, wouldn't you? He could rejoin your family instead of being part of the family your ex-wife wanted to build. You could bring him back in line."

"...no," John whispered with tears in his eyes, which had struggled open at last. He looked ill. "I couldn't have."

"People are capable of doing horrific things," he said gravely. He had his patient where he wanted him. Now all he needed was the admission, to hear John speak of the grievous error he'd committed, to be privy to the source of that enormous, soul-eating guilt. Persistence would be the crowbar to force this stubborn mind wide open. "What was your mistake, John?"

It was exciting, playing the odds, seeing how far he could get before this increasing clarity in his patient went too far and had to be seen to. It was small signs at first. More motor control over the eyes, greater range of expression and emotion, and an increased range of undirected thought.

"I should have gone with them. Stopped it. Maybe if I had been there, _right _there..."

"Did you see the attacker?"

"No." John's hands were closed into fists, clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Fear and anguish could extend the game as his cocktail began to wane. They could be as debilitating as the medication, if not more so. The prison of the mind was a formidable one indeed.

"Tell me what you saw. Tell me what happened next."

"T-They went out of sight... behind a stand of bushes and trees. I heard screams." He dragged in a breath. "I ran, but I knew it was too late. They were death screams."

"Sam was still conscious, wasn't he? Did you check him first?"

John's eyes were glazed, seeing nothing of the room. He was there, seeing the day of the 'accident' as everyone was so gently referring to it. He was reliving the scene. "There was less blood. I knew that my wif-" his voice caught in his throat and it took him a moment to continue, "that the other two were dead."

"But Sam wasn't cut at all, was he?" Dr. Walter pried. "He had a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. Nothing permanently damaging. It seems to me that a killer would not have left one of them generally unharmed."

"They didn't have time to finish the job. I scared them off." Regret poured through his voice as he said, "If only I'd gotten there sooner, or been there in the first place..."

Dr. Walter smiled. "That sounds awfully convenient," he trailed, _tsk tsking_ softly under his breath. "Are you sure it wasn't you?" he said almost caressingly. "With your history of mental instability? Might it be possible that you didn't see the attacker because the attacker was _you_, and you don't _remember _because you were suffering a psychotic break? A fully disassociated state where you lost all awareness of your self and surroundings?"

John was shaking, his teeth clenched and bared. "It wasn't me," he hissed, agitation practically sparking off of him in waves. "The thing I was hunting-"

"There were other times that you made mistakes, weren't there, John?" he spoke the name almost like a reassurance, a placating caress. It was camouflage for him as the instigator of misery and also served to keep his patient grounded through the wash of memories. Names could be powerful things. "Different kinds of mistakes. There were times where doubt plagued your decisiveness and you wondered if the beasts you'd taken down had ever been beasts at all."

"No," his patient protested more loudly and lucidly as an emotional response churned within him. "I always made sure."

"Dean has that same doubt. Sometimes he wonders if you didn't turn him into just a killer, but a murderer as well."

"No!" John thrashed, attempting to sit up, but the restraints wouldn't let him. "There are always signs. We never strike unless we're sure."

Time was running thin, but the good doctor just couldn't tear himself away. There were so many hatchets to bury, so many things to discover. These _hunters_ had a habit of breaking in the most interesting ways. "You know why Dean is here, don't you, John? You know the truth behind _his _little mistake."

John lay still once more, his face becoming ashen.

"He read the signs, _your_ signs," the doctor continued, somewhat smugly. "He took your gospel, acted upon it, and _realized_, only at the last moment, the even graver mistake he was about to make." The man he spoke of had sustained a major injury to his arm, had been bleeding profusely from the knife wound when he had staggered into the nearest bar to call for help. He leaned in next to his patient's ear. "Wounding is one thing... but he almost killed someone, John. Almost killed a perfectly normal human being."

"You don't know that."

"I do," he said simply. "Why else would the little soldier you trained so well fail to go in for the kill? He saw it, before it was too late, and let the man go. It was a shame that the man had a full description to give to the police and the police had enough time on their hands to actually go out and find him." He patted the side of John's face patronizingly. "Perhaps it was lucky for Dean that he'd said enough to make the man think he was crazy. Otherwise, it would be a different sort of prison he'd be in right now, wouldn't it?"

Dr. Walter savored the wash of denial present in his patient as the truth battered at the walls of his carefully constructed world. He watched it all and recognized that guilt had been part and parcel to keeping Winchester from visiting his eldest son even once in all the years since he'd been committed. He felt responsible for that near disaster. After all, he had trained Dean himself.

"Now you tell _me_, John... how certain are you that the monsters you fight aren't simply people, cloaked in your own psychotic delusions?" He smiled, a sharp expression full of perfectly even white teeth. "Can you still in good conscience cling to the ideal of saving the world from what lurks in the shadows? Or perhaps you are starting to wonder if the true monster... is you?"

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:** Chapter title is from the song **"Return of the Shadows"**by Infected Mushroom. Mood-wise I think it especially fits the beginning of the chapter. Kind of ominous and driving. In addition, I feel like sharing a few other songs that apply to this chapter which I was listening to a lot while writing it or thinking on plot stuff.

**-"The Other Side"**by Pendulum. This was sort of mixing with the later scenes of this chapter, in my mind and seemed appropriate. ^^ It made me think of other bits of this story-verse as well. I've been listening to this constantly lately, and having it playing in my head as well.

_Come on down to the other side, _  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell, <em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are to where you belong. <em>  
><em>[x2]<em>

_There's nothing, to fear, _  
><em>Your saviors, are here, <em>  
><em>The shift is coming down, <em>  
><em>The shift is coming down, <em>  
><em>The shift is coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>

_You, You look so precious, _  
><em>A diamond in rough, <em>  
><em>And you tried to escape, <em>  
><em>But were holding on, <em>

_But we can't sleep until this is done, _  
><em>They're in my head, <em>  
><em>They're in my soul, <em>

_Come on down to the other side, _  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell, <em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are to where you belong. <em>  
><em>[x2]<em>

_We are in your spirit, _  
><em>We're everywhere you turn, <em>  
><em>From the cover undercover, <em>  
><em>The cover undercover, <em>  
><em>In your lover, <em>  
><em>In your brother, <em>  
><em>In your brother, <em>  
><em>The other's, <em>

_You, You look so precious, _  
><em>But now we're on are way, <em>  
><em>And I am falling apart, <em>  
><em>I'll get the waves, <em>

_But I can't sleep until this is done, _  
><em>They're in my head, <em>  
><em>They're in my soul, <em>

_Through the gates of hell, _  
><em>We know you, <em>

_The shift is coming down, _  
><em>The shift is coming down, <em>  
><em>The shift is coming down, <em>  
><em>The shift is coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>  
><em>Coming down, <em>

_Down to the other side, _  
><em>Come with us through the gates of hell, <em>  
><em>Where we'll drag you from where you are to where you belong. <em>  
><em>[x2]<em>

**-"Low Five"**by Sneaker Pimps. (Love love the deep, moody and slightly acoustic sound to this. It's also fully lyric filled, for those of you who may not be into instrumentals/electronic as much.) The lead singer has this great sort of British accented voice that I can't describe properly. He's also the lead singer of IAMX in which he does not sing in the same style voice. It was pretty funny when I realized it was him. I was listening to IAMX for a while before the song "Half Life" made me a fan of Sneaker Pimps. "S.H.E." was the song that got me onto IAMX. Not sure why they called it that. Fantastic song, though. :)

_It takes too much to please me _  
><em>Attached but no real feeling <em>  
><em>High fives and corporate anthems <em>  
><em>Nothing comes to mind <em>

_Kitemarked for true low standards _  
><em>Where more wants all and no less <em>  
><em>Just change with no real progress <em>  
><em>Nothing comes to mind <em>  
><em>I want higher <em>  
><em>Still nothing comes to mind <em>  
><em>[ Lyrics from: ssneaker+pimps/low+five_ ]_  
><em>Give me a low five <em>  
><em>Cuz I can't help myself <em>  
><em>I'm a low five downsize no one else <em>  
><em>Do you love yourself? <em>

_Altered states and egos _  
><em>Potential less than zero <em>  
><em>Found God in san diego <em>  
><em>Nothing comes to mind <em>

_I half expect to find myself _  
><em>In full control of nothing else <em>  
><em>Lost hope but learnt to hopeless <em>  
><em>Nothing comes to mind <em>  
><em>I want higher <em>  
><em>Still nothing comes to mind<em>

**-"The Vulture"**by Pendulum. Very highly energized, reminiscent of Prodigy (like the song "Firestarter"). Love it. I was heavy listening to this while writing this chapter.

_It's the rise of the Vulture_  
><em>I feel the panic<em>  
><em>All those who are nervous<em>  
><em>With loss of dynamic<em>  
><em>Your blood's been poisoned<em>  
><em>If your heart is sour<em>  
><em>Hear the sound of the war drums<em>  
><em>We're taking the power<em>  
><em>(We're taking...the power)<em>  
><em>We're taking the power<em>  
><em>(We're taking...the power)<em>

_It's the rise of the Vulture_  
><em>Gotta keep on climbing<em>  
><em>No chance of escape<em>  
><em>No use in hiding <em>  
><em>Through the eye of the storm<em>  
><em>With a silver lining<em>  
><em>To the point where it breaks<em>  
><em>Gonna keep on grinding<em>  
><em>(We're taking...the power)<em>  
><em>We're taking the power<em>  
><em>(We're taking...the power)<em>


	24. Trapt

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 23: Trapt<span>

_"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you." -Friedrich Nietzsche "__Beyond Good and Evil__", Aphorism 146 (1886)_

* * *

><p>A rapping at the door made Garnet look up from the philosophy book he was trying to read as he reclined upon his bed. He wouldn't have bothered with such a topic, but he'd been bored one too many times already. Consequently, he discovered that while many of the "great minds" of philosophy seemed full of self-gratified ego stroking (and could also suffer an affliction of meandering verbosity in which they might lose even <em>themselves)<em>, Nietzsche had some interesting ideas.

"What do you want?" he called back, irritated at the prospect that he might actually have to get up off of his bed to answer the door. Where was his roommate when he could be making himself useful?

"Garnet?" came the muffled response.

Oh, he recognized that voice. "Why the hell are you knocking? Come in already."

The door opened with hesitation and Pokey peeked in from around the corner. "You got a second?"

Garnet put his book aside, marking the page with a corner of his sheet. "I guess so. What's up with you?" He couldn't recall his roommate ever knocking to come into their room before. Did he think that he was going to be interrupting something or what?

Pokey was looking around like someone might have been following him - all twitchy and nervous - as he shut the door behind him.

Garnet raised a brow in amusement. "What'd you do, steal something off of Dean again?"

Pokey twitched guiltily at hearing his Dean's name, practically confirming Garnet's supposition.

"Aw, come on," Garnet complained. "I told you I'm not gonna cover for you and your stupid compulsions anymore when you get caught."

Pokey shook his head, surprising him. "It's something else, G".

This apparent revelation was not making his roommate look any less twitchy. "You gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?"

"Maybe I shouldn't tell you after all," Pokey said uncertainly. He had the gall to cast glances at the door like he was thinking of darting back through it.

"Like hell," Garnet said in annoyance, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and pinning his roommate with an interrogative stare. "What'd you do?"

"It's not-" he started, obviously having difficulty. "Well... I... sort of saw something. Er, _heard _something... actually."

"Spit it out."

"I was... I was passing by Dean's room and I heard something." His voice began picking up speed. "I wasn't sure what at first, and then I realized that someone was in there with him and they were, um, fucking-"

"Jesus, Lewis," Garnet said dismissively, picking up his book again. _What a waste of time. _It was none of his business who fucked whom. Besides, he already had a good idea who the other person would have been. "Now you're listening in on people-"? he said blandly. Well, good for them, getting a little action. It was about time they got past whatever hang-ups that were making them act so freaking repressed.

"You don't understand," Pokey nearly hissed under his breath, making Garnet give him a second glance. He looked like he was going to hyperventilate. "He called them his _brother!"_

Garnet froze, eyes widening as he realized what this meant. _Jesus. They're brothers? _He quickly swung his eyes back down to his book as the shock hit him, and kept them glued firmly to the printed pages to hide his reaction while he tried to process it.

Everything seemed called into question suddenly, and he felt the need to go over this from the beginning, trying to wrap his mind around it. Between Dean and Ed, anyone having sex in that room would automatically be Dean. The other person would be Sam... Had to be. There _was _no one else. Dean hadn't given any guy in here a second glance until Sam came along - he'd always held out for the rare, weak-willed nurse.

And he'd already known for sure now that Dean and Sam had become physically involved - Dean had grudgingly admitted it while holding on to some other secret he refused to tell even upon pain of death. That secret...

_**That's**__ why they seemed so similar? They're actually related?!_

But how was that possible? Dean had no contact with the outside. No family visits. How was it that Sam was even brought in as a patient at _this _hospital? He couldn't have done it himself, he wasn't even conscious when he got here, or for some time afterwards. It wasn't faked. And their names were different. Campbell and Winchester. At the least, they must've had different fathers.

_So... they're half brothers? _Or was one of them adopted? He tried to reason it out, as if that really made things so much better.

_Shit, Dean. What the __**hell**__, man? _Garnet bit his tongue, and tried to make sense out of his flickering thoughts. He'd just never seen this coming. This was 9 kinds of fucked up. He didn't know how to react. And Pokey was looking at him expectantly, anxious for him to say something.

"You sure it was Dean?" Garnet drawled flatly, trying to reclaim the feeling of boredom that had driven him to read the book he was holding so uselessly in his hands right now. _What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to __**think**__?_

"If it wasn't, he sure had the other person fooled," his roommate mumbled with a flush rising in his face. He paused. "You think it was Sam?" he asked nervously. "You think that they're... uh..."

"Lewis, shut your mouth," Garnet snapped.

"Wha-?" his roommate blinked at him owlishly.

"What do you think is going to happen if something like this gets out and you heard it _wrong_?"

"But..." Pokey looked taken aback. "I know what I heard."

Garnet gave him an imperious look. "Oh? Are you sure enough about what you heard that you want to risk it? How can you know without a doubt _who y_ou heard or _what _they were saying while in the middle of something like that?" He shook his head admonishingly and turned a page of the book he wasn't reading. "You poor bastard," he said drolly, with an approximation of his old self. "You'll be on Dean's hate list for sure if you start making stuff up like this. And Sam - you like him, right? How do you think he'd take that kind of news being spread about him?"

"But-" his roommate protested.

"Lewis, drop it," he said sharply. This situation was a major problem, a real explosive sort of problem. If anything like this got out... He turned another page, and cultivated looking the perfect picture of bored and annoyed. "You _can't _go on speculations. Keep this to yourself."

A loud knock sounded upon the door, making him jump. Luckily his roommate missed it as he'd turned towards the source of the noise. A moment later it opened and Jared was poking his shaved head around the door. "Oh, am I interrupting something?"

Lewis looked edgy, maybe even like he was bursting with news, but he glanced at Garnet as if in confirmation that he was really not supposed to say anything.

"Nope," Garnet said, settling back against the pillows he'd jammed into a backrest at the head of his bed. He turned another page of his book, flicking his eyes across the printed lines in a facsimile of reading. He wondered what his late grandmother would have said about all of this. Treat friends like family, never turn your back - this had been drilled into him among many other things. He did it almost like breathing. Easily, most of the time. But this was a hard thing to swallow and he felt uneasy, like he was just going through the motions while he tried to process all of it.

She'd been very wise, and unabashedly unconventional at times, his grandmother. But nothing she'd taught him had quite covered something like this. Covering for them... Was he doing the right thing?

* * *

><p>"These group therapy sessions are stupid," Dean complained under his breath as he and Sam walked out of the room with at least twenty others.<p>

He was of a sour disposition at the moment. It seemed more and more like these useless sessions were merely a way to keep them all 'busy' and it really cut into their time to look for their father. He was still pissed at his dad for never coming to see him, and had only agreed to look for him for Sam's sake, but... it had been many days now and Sam's worry was becoming infectious. What if something _had _happened? Wouldn't he regret it later if inaction on his part made things worse?

Maybe his dad was being a dick for not bothering with him all these years, or for meeting only with Sam as he came here, but... he was still his dad. Like it or not, he still cared if the old bastard was ok. He could be pissed off later, right now the priority was finding him. If he was even here at all.

"Maybe so," Sam said with a small shrug as they headed toward the cafeteria. "But they aren't optional, either way."

"Maybe so?" Dean scoffed. "You think they actually have merit?"

"I don't know. Maybe," Sam said lightly. "Just looking around, I think that it might be helping some people." He glanced at Dean with an overly bland look. "Not you, of course. You're hopeless."

"I'm not hopeless," Dean said, cuffing him in the shoulder, "I'm _evolved_."

"Riiight." Sam looked nonplussed. He absently rubbed his arm. "And does your highly evolved state of being require you to pick fights with the therapists _every _time?"

"I have a right to make them earn their paychecks. Besides, they piss me off."

"I'm sure they just love you, too."

"What's not to love?" Dean responded with a grin.

"Probably everything."

"Oh really?" Dean drawled, raising an eyebrow as Sam tried to keep straight-faced after saying something like that. He peered at his brother intently, taking up the mini challenge of breaking his stoic expression. He knew it was inordinately difficult for Sam not to react to him, especially when he was right up in his face. "I bet I know someone who doesn't think that at all," he said with mock innocence. "Maybe you know him. He's about this tall," he gestured to the ceiling well above their heads, taking a dig at Sam's exceptional height. "Long, sorta girly hair," he went on as his brother's jaw locked stiffly. "Kinda _prissy _expression to his face..." He saw a muscle twitch in Sam's cheek. One more jab ought to do it... "Oh," he said with a conspiratorial leer as he leaned a bit closer, "and just the other night he was saying the damnedest things in my ear while we-"

"All right, all right!" Sam cut him off with exasperation, before he could say something off-color. "You win."

"Aw, you're blushing, Sammy," Dean tormented him with glee.

"Am not," Sam growled.

"Look, even the tips of your ears are red," he said, reaching out to touch the curve of one. "The only other time I've seen _that _is when you-"

"Dean," Sam warned darkly, rubbing his hand over his face.

Heh. Sammy was so cute when he was embarrassed and trying to act like he wasn't. Dean preened obnoxiously, smiling wide. "You should know better than to challenge the master, boy."

Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously rebellious.

"I warn you now, I am fully able and willing to take you up on that offer," Dean said in a low voice. "But," he leaned closer to add with a smirk, "you wouldn't be walking right for a week."

A flush hit his brother's cheeks almost instantly. "However did you get to be so charming, Dean?" he said sarcastically.

"It's an innate talent."

They were nearly at the cafeteria now. "Hey," Dean said, switching gears abruptly, "you think we should eat separate again today?"

Sam considered. "We've been doing that a lot. It should be okay not to, every once in a while."

"Well, we aren't supposed to be arch enemies anymore. It should be fine, right?"

"Are your so-called friends going to be giving me the third-degree?" He was inclined to agree, but Dean's friends made him want to reconsider.

"Maybe. But they're harmless." Dean shrugged it off. "Come on, it shouldn't be too bad, they already figured out that there's something going on between us. It's old news."

"You told them?" Oh, now he really wanted to avoid sitting with the lot of them. They'd been bad enough _before _they knew anything.

"It was implied." Dean let out a sigh. "Look, it's not like you have to. But I just get kind of sick of only seeing you from across the damn room."

"So you'd rather harass me in person, is that it?" Sam raised an un-enthused eyebrow.

"Of course." Dean clapped him on the back and shot him a tilted smile. He sensed Sam's resistance giving way which put him in a triumphantly good mood. Two wins in one day. What was the world coming to?

* * *

><p>Dr. Walter sat at his desk in the infirmary, turning a small flashlight over in his hands. So innocuous it was like this. Just a device with a function. Nothing more, nothing less.<p>

And yet...

He clicked it on and shone the beam of light across the room where it caught upon a musty ventilation grate near the ceiling.

And yet... such an item, discovered in such a place as it had been... represented nothing but trouble. Someone, and he had a good idea who, had breached the lower levels of the building, leaving their mark, as well as this item - concrete evidence of their passing. Left unchecked, it might be only a matter of time before they ventured too far. Much too far to be tolerated.

Now, who did he know that might take the trouble to ward things off with lines of salt? Who did he know that was resourceful enough to land himself into all sorts of trouble?

Who else... but a Winchester?

The doctor's face smiled but inside he was seething. His problem child Dean was out to make a nuisance of himself. John and little Sammy had the same convenient button to push - that day in the park - which could collapse their psyches like a deck of cards, but Dean... he operated like he had nothing left to lose. He was a challenge. A frustrating challenge. Dr. Walter clicked the flashlight off again brusquely. He was in quite a mood today, so he couldn't even properly appreciate it. Quite a mood indeed. He couldn't properly enjoy the game that was afoot. How could he, after he'd learned of John's little plan to steal the pieces away from him? And after all of the effort he'd expended to ensure things went his way...

Dr. Walter leaned back in his office chair.

It was by a happy coincidence that he learned of Dean through Dr. Kubrick. They discussed patients from time to time, and the case had immediately struck a chord with him. Eventually he'd gotten Kubrick to let slip the name, confirming his delighted supposition that he'd stumbled upon one of John's relations. With planning and patience he ensured that when Dean was transferred, he came to Oak Grove. Oh, it was Kubrick's idea, he made sure of that; he'd just planted the seed. For while he was here, he was just an assistant psychiatrist, not one with the authority to make such decisions. It was by design. He'd learned that taking only an assistant level role granted him a lot more freedom and less scrutiny.

It had been flawless. Utterly. Dean had come into his care under the guise of Kubrick overseeing his case remotely, and he could do as he liked. And he had, taking his time cracking the shell of him and scrambling him up inside, extracting things of interest and hearing another dimension of the Winchester family described to him which was most intriguing.

Then, by what seemed to be an unprecedented stroke of luck, the younger son was suddenly brought in, practically hand-delivered by John himself. Oh, the irony of it was precious beyond measure.

It was a near perfect setup that he had right now. It mustn't be spoiled.

John's presence, while compelling and nostalgic, was a potential problem. The Winchesters themselves were all potential problems, really, if not handled right. It was the nature of the beast. And that was the little game they played. Cat and mouse. It was a delicate balance that could be upset all too easily.

He swiveled his chair slightly, lost in thought, a frown etched upon his face.

His little trespasser... he knew it was Dean. Sam hadn't been here long enough to know about the basement, hear the stories, or be able to smoothly obtain the quantity of salt he'd discovered in the passageway. He'd also been out of the family business long enough that he wouldn't have had cause to traipse about in the dark, looking for things to lay to rest. He also wouldn't have put any store in the protective attributes of a line of salt, let alone lay one out himself.

_Dean, Dean, Dean. _He tapped the flashlight against his palm.

It was _Dean_ that was heading up the search for John. It was _Dean_ who would know where to look. And it was_ Dean _who could upset the balance - it was only a matter of time.

Dr. Walter nearly crushed the flashlight within his fist as a sudden fit of ire overcame him. He knew now that John had been planning to liberate his sons from the system. That was his purpose here and what the meetings were about. _That _was why Sam had been seeing him, despite his repressed rage. First it would be Sam who slipped free, and then, at an undisclosed time, Dean as well.

He wouldn't allow it.

"I won't let you have your way, John," he murmured under his breath, releasing his hold upon the protesting flashlight. "There is still so much to be done."

Dr. Walter took in a slow, meditative breath, filling his lungs and slowly releasing it. On another day, he might marvel over the fact that his composure had actually been affected. But he'd been taken by surprise and that did not sit well with him.

_No matter_, he told himself. The bigger picture was yet unshaken. He'd taken measures already to ensure this. He could always take additional, more drastic measures if need be.

* * *

><p>"Hey guys," Dean greeted as he threw a leg over the bench seating and set his tray down with a muted clatter.<p>

"'Sup," Garth said around a dinner roll, his head nodding at him like a dashboard bobble-head doll.

"Hi," Garnet said from the other side of the table. For once, he'd actually gotten himself something to eat. He was currently working on a pile of spaghetti and meatballs. He also had his hair pulled back into a ponytail with the OCD-ish banding of hair-ties down its length which tended to make his face look more severe than normal.

Sam was low-key, looking perfectly at ease as he sat down catty-corner to Dean, but Dean could tell he was watching everyone closely.

Pokey was there as well, but he was staring into his soup almost fixedly, not looking up. He nodded almost imperceptibly in response to the greeting, then seemed to rouse himself to distractedly eat a spoonful of it.

"Where's Cue ball?" Dean asked.

"Dunno," Garth said while finishing off his roll, as no one else seemed inclined to answer. "Gym, I'd expect."

"Not like him to miss a meal though," Dean commented as he bit into his grilled cheese sandwich.

"Maybe he discovered what books are for, and what all that fuss over reading was about," Garnet said blandly.

"For all the time we spend in the library, I can't say that I've ever seen him pick one up," Dean observed.

"Me neither," Garth agreed, spearing some green beans on his fork. "But you know what they say, it's never too late to start."

"I thought it was more like 'It's never too late to quit', as in smoking, drinking, and the like?" Sam said.

"Meh," Garth scoffed. "That's just tripe waved about by people who can't properly appreciate a good vice."

"People who act better than everyone else usually have the most to hide," Dean commented, polishing off his sandwich. "Can't trust a person who has no flaws."

Sam was thinking that their dad often acted like he was better, more _right _than everyone else. And so did Dean at times. But both of them wore their flaws on the edge of their sleeves - so he was thinking, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lewis nod in agreement and it struck him as odd. For some reason he got the impression that the small man was assenting that _Dean _was the one that could not be trusted or had something to hide.

Sam glanced at Dean, catching the tail end of an expression falling off of his face that he couldn't quite categorize. From the look of it though, he seemed to think something was amiss.

The silence at the table had a different quality to it than the other times Sam had been with this group. He could just be imagining it, and he didn't know the others well, but he did know Dean. He had something of a restless look, even if he was hiding it well.

"Hey, Garnet, you can have the rest of this since you're so hungry today," Dean said, sliding his bowl of soup across the table. His gaze was steady, as if he were performing some kind of test with this gesture.

Garnet's eyes flicked up for a moment and he shrugged, twining more spaghetti onto his fork. "I'm not a garbage disposal, I'll hit bottom on just this."

"Really?" Dean said, feigning surprise as he rested his elbows on the table, increasing the weight of his stare. "With how you've been so intent on your plate, I'd swear you were starving."

Garnet looked cross as he stabbed a meatball and shoved the loaded fork into his mouth. He spared Dean a deadpan glare while he chewed. It was obvious he didn't like Dean calling him out on avoiding him. Because that was what Dean was getting at. Garnet wasn't acting quite right.

"Forget it," Dean said, getting up. He tossed his napkin down on his tray and got up. "I need to talk to Jared anyway."

Sam considered what he should do with himself now that he was going to be stuck alone with his brother's pals while continuing to eat. He couldn't very well hop up after Dean had vacated the premises and make them look like they were attached at the hip. They'd already encountered trouble from the other patients, just after he'd woken up, for seeming too friendly with each other. That led to fights and fights were to be avoided at all costs. The last thing they needed was either of them being harshly medicated, carted off to solitary, or both.

"It's nice to see you once in a while, Sam," Garth said pleasantly, with a slight tick making his hand twitch as he buttered another roll. "Was starting to think you didn't like us."

"Oh," Sam said, shaking his head. "No, it's nothing like that..." He wracked his brain for something to say, fork drooping in the process. "I'm uh..." what could he say that was believable? Was there some kind of neurosis he could claim that would explain away his behavior without also alienating these people? "I don't really like people," he said flatly, the words coming out sounding much worse than expected. _That was the best I could come up with? What the hell is wrong with me? _He cursed mentally as Garth stopped buttering his roll mid-stroke and raised an eyebrow. _I should've said I have a fear of groups or... Or that I'm paranoid as fuck and have trust issues or something. _

"Hear hear," Garnet agreed unexpectedly. He looked almost maudlin as he doggedly twined more spaghetti upon his fork.

The awkward feeling at the table both dissipated and ratcheted up a few notches.

Garth shrugged to himself, as if shrugging off the matter and finished buttering his roll. "Different folks, different strokes," he commented pleasantly as if no longer bothered.

"Different strokes," Pokey muttered to himself. "Ow," he cursed a second later, head whipping to his left where Garnet was sitting, innocently eating a meatball as if he hadn't just kicked him under the table.

Garth glanced at them, eyebrows lifting quizzically. "Problem?" he asked.

"Problem?" Garnet repeated blandly. He glanced at his roommate and his eyes had a sternness to them that didn't match the nonchalance he was exhibiting otherwise. "You got a problem, Poke?" he asked.

"No," Lewis said, looking away, agitation creasing the skin between his eyebrows.

"He's probably just sexually frustrated or something," Garnet said blithely, gesturing vaguely with his fork.

"Ah," Garth nodded. "Yeah, that would do it."

_Awkward_, Sam thought. "On that note," he said, deeming it a good time to get out of dodge. "I'm going to hit the library." It was a good an excuse as any. He needed to get a hobby or something here. Dean had the gym, and that had provided plenty of ways for him to excuse himself. Plus, it filled the time.

"Don't get your hopes up," Garth told him, "they already pulled the Nudie mags off the shelf."

"What?" Sam stammered in surprise and some embarrassment. Maybe he shouldn't have said 'on that note' right after the sexually frustrated remark. "I didn't mean I was going to..."

"Ah, but someone always manages to sneak some back in," Garnet said knowledgeably. "It's worth a look," he added significantly, and Sam got the impression that he was being teased.

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, now increasingly more uncomfortable and not wanting to continue this line of conversation. He could feel his face threatening to flush, especially as Garnet began to look amused at his expense. "I'll um... do that," he said, beating a hasty retreat.

"What's he need mags for?" he heard Lewis gripe under his breath as he was leaving. "Be a waste of resources- ow!"

Sam dumped his tray then headed for the cafeteria door, swearing he felt eyes on him. He glanced around covertly as he walked, and there were definitely several people marking his movements. It was more than the usual glance you would give someone as movement caught your eye. It was the kind of gaze that could make you feel hunted.

He kept walking as if he hadn't noticed, but the hair was standing up on the back of his neck. These people, they struck him as the type to flock together if something caught at them and embroiled them. Some of their eyes had such a cold, inhuman look in them. A blank, dead stare that said they were capable of things that were best not dwelled upon.

Insanity.

It was amazing how little he had really thought of that since coming here. Amazing how much he had really not contemplated it, or how dangerous insanity might make an individual.

Truth be told, if he heard the word 'insane' he previously would have had his father or brother spring to mind. But they were both pretty functional on most levels, it was the delusional thinking they'd been labeled with that had landed them here. And many of the others he had encountered in the asylum so far had not seemed too worrisome either. But how about those that were not functional? How about those individuals who were without the internal checks and balances that would keep them from doing horrific things? People that functioned from the darkest part of the human psyche, like serial killers, mutilators, and even cannibals, they would be a very small percentage of the population. So there might not be a concern of that here. And yet even 'normal' people could be swayed to behave without empathy or remorse when the right environment was cultivated. Mob mentality could also promote aggressive, irrational behavior. Safety was an illusion. All it would take was the right catalyst.

There was a lot of grey area in the spectrum between psychopathy and sanity. A lot of unpredictable grey, and here in this place it was even more concentrated. If the sane could be swayed to commit atrocities, then the mentally unstable would be even more susceptible, even if they were not normally prone to violence.

He shook his head, but the thought remained. How many people here had the potential to become very dangerous?

_Maybe I am paranoid after all._

* * *

><p>"Hey Winchester," a voice called out behind Dean in the hall. It was a low tone, and not a friendly one. "Your days are numbered, man." Dean heaved a deep sigh and made a show of turning around.<p>

"Says who?" Dean responded with a bland, acerbic look. He sort of recognized the guy, having seen him around a few times. Couldn't have told you his name though. He was Latino, but other than that he didn't really have any distinguishing features. Just a few tattoos across his largely muscled shoulders. But hell, he couldn't be bothered to remember everyone he crossed fists with.

"Doesn't matter," the man said with laugh that sounded a bit off. Dean suspected he was here for drug rehab. "People are gonna know about you, man. And they don't like things that is different."

"Are you done wasting my time?" This guy was about as cryptic as Gordon. Maybe they were friends. In any case, it was annoying.

"Watch your back."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean resisted the urge to knock the guy's teeth in as he shrugged him off; he didn't respond well to threats. There wasn't any reason **not **to do it, as far as he was concerned, but he _was _trying to get out of here on good behavior. Best to just walk away.

"More than you watch Sam's," the Latino added with a sneer at his back.

Dean stopped mid-step and turned around slowly.

He felt the corner of his mouth drawing up in a sharp smile and his blood stirred with the rushing din of invigoration he felt when he knew he was going to let off steam in a completely unproductive fashion. Consequences lost their immediacy and were easily brushed aside for the moment, no longer hindering him so. Like magic, everything became streamlined and simplified enough to be nearly liberating. "Congratulations," he said with dark humor, as he took measured steps back towards his target. "You now have my _full _attention. I hope you know what to do with it."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **I almost had a funny typo!

"She'd been very wise, and unabashedly unconventional at times, his grandmother. But nothing she'd taught him had quite covered something like this. Covering for the _**Wincestors**_... Was he doing the right thing?"

LOL. Obviously it would be a screw-up because Garnet just got done assuming that they had different fathers so Sam couldn't be lumped in with Dean and be collectively called "the Winchesters". But even so, it might be more than a little OOC for someone who is not a fangirl to refer to them as "the Wincestors". Hahaha. Sometimes typos are hilarious.

**A/N2: **Chapter title is a deviation. I was in a mood to break the convention I'd took so much time working on and sticking with. So, we have **"Trapt" by VTG from the album 'Beautiful People Look Away'**. It's instrumental. Not all of their stuff is though (Like "Loudly", "The End" or even "I Lie Pretty" (different album)).

Anyway, I think it's a pretty good album overall, very dark and atmospheric, with a hint of... well, I'm not sure how to classify it exactly but Nine Inch Nails has it sometimes in their slower, less radio-played stuff. Like _"The Great Below" _and _"I'm Looking Forward to Joining You Finally"_ on the album The Fragile. Also the song _"And All That Could Have Been" _is just... one of my all time favorites (aside from I'm Looking Forward to Joining You Finally). It's just gut-wrenching, if you really feel what he's singing. (I've seen some amazing AMVs done to that song that'd just rip your heart out.)

Consequently, the singer from VTG reminds me a bit of Trent Reznor with his singing style sometimes. (You can hear it in the song "Drunk" for instance.) If you like NIN at all, you may want to check out VTG. Oh, or the band 'I Will Never Be the Same." AWESOME, awesome music there. Listened to their stuff on massive repeat forever.

_**"I'm Looking Forward To Joining You, Finally"**_

_as black as the night can get_  
><em>everything is safer now<em>  
><em>there's always a way to forget<em>  
><em>once you learn to find a way how<em>

_in the blur of serenity_  
><em>where did everything get lost?<em>  
><em>the flowers of naivete<em>  
><em>buried in a layer of frost<em>

_the smell of sunshine_  
><em>I remember sometimes<em>

_thought he had it all before they called his bluff_  
><em>found out that his skin just wasn't thick enough<em>  
><em>wanted to go back to how it was before<em>  
><em>thought he lost everything<em>  
><em>then he lost a whole lot more<em>

_a fool's devotion_  
><em>swallowed up in empty space<em>  
><em>the tears of regret<em>  
><em>frozen to the side of his face<em>

_the smell of sunshine_  
><em>I remember sometimes<em>

_I've done all I can do_  
><em>could I please come with you?<em>  
><em>sweet smell of sunshine<em>  
><em>I remember sometimes<em>


	25. Hush Mail

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 24: Hush Mail<span>

Dean avoided Sam the next few days, deeming it necessary.

He began it in a respectable fashion. He left a note.

It contained some crap about laying low and playing along with their Dad's plan to get them out and all, but the real reason was that something was brewing.

He knew Sam was aggravated with him over it, but it couldn't be helped. Besides, he didn't want Sam getting too close or he'd notice evidence of his fight with crazy Latino guy. He'd mis-anticipated a few things and had ended up taking a hit or two. His cheekbone had been grazed, catching the edge of a punch that he'd largely avoided, but the guy's fist had connected enough that the flesh had swollen a bit. The kick to the ribs was the real kicker (no pun intended). It hadn't even hurt that much at the time but his skin was coloring up like a freaking rainbow. There was no way Sam would miss that, and then he'd _definitely_ be on the other end of an earful. _'You shoulda seen the other guy,' _was not going to cut it.

Not that Sam would be wrong for chewing him out. He knew it was counterproductive to let his temper get the better of him, especially if he ever wanted out of here. But he didn't need to hear other people telling him that he'd fucked up by giving in to impulse (and taking care of the problem directly).

Which brought him to his current situation. Dean heaved a sigh. "No, I have not been fighting," he repeated at Garnet's request of, _'Tell me you haven't been fighting.'_

"I didn't mean for you to lie," the long-haired youth said with irritation. "I was hoping that you hadn't been that stupid."

Dean gave him a disapproving glare, lifting his head up from where he lay sprawled upon Garnet's bed. "Your and my definitions of stupid seem to be at odds."

"'Stupid'," Garnet deadpanned with a scowl, "doing things that attract the very kind of attention you are trying to avoid. Do you like Solitary? Or are you secretly fond of being the doctors' pincushion?"

"I didn't start any fights," Dean maintained. "And you know, maybe there's other stuff going on that you aren't aware of while you make your all-knowing little assessments."

"Like?" Garnet asked sharply.

_Aw, shit. _He wasn't going to spell it out for him. He couldn't get into details regarding him and Sam, even if he did mostly trust Garnet with anything. "Nothing." He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

"If you keep lying to me, I'm going to start hating you."

Dean frowned. He knew his friend had issues with lying, and he didn't exactly like doing it, but what was he supposed to say? "Alright, no need to get so serious." He sighed again, noting that he'd been doing that a lot lately, and rubbed his hand briefly over his lower face. "It looks like it's starting."

"What is?"

"People are catching wind of me and Sam being involved," he elaborated. "Though it's weird that it seems to be causing such an issue. I mean, it's to be expected to some extent, but still, it's _weird _- like there's something else to it. Something that isn't going to just blow over."

"_Oh_," Garnet said simply, looking almost troubled for a second.

"That's it? _'Oh'_?" Dean felt a frown form on his face. Garnet wasn't exactly the poster-child for sharing and caring, but even for him it was a pretty lackluster response.

"Sorry, I just thought of something I need to do." Garnet put on his jacket and gestured to the room. "Feel free to keep invading my space as you've been doing, hiding from Sam."

Dean scoffed. "I'm not hiding."

"No? Well, you should be. He does _not _seem to be that happy with you at the moment. He was properly pissed when I gave him that note of yours. Nice move, there, by the way. Very smooth."

"Oh, shut up." Dean flopped back onto the bed listlessly, wondering how he should even begin to start making up for that. Hiding things from Sam was a pain in the ass, he'd discovered.

"I'll be back," Garnet said.

Dean waved him off, wanting to be left alone to think anyway.

* * *

><p>Garnet stalked down the halls, looking for one face in particular. He was pissed. The little bastard had to have said something after all, despite him. There was no other explanation for what Dean was saying; and if <em>he <em>thought a situation was gearing up to something volatile, most likely it was.

"Hey Garnet," Garth greeted as he passed by him near the cafeteria.

"Busy," Garnet said shortly.

He checked all over but was coming up empty handed. Cafeteria, halls, recreation area, library. Nothing. Almost on a whim, he checked the bathroom one more time.

"Hey, G," Pokey said in a startled voice, after practically walking into him at the door.

"Lewis," Garnet returned stonily.

"What's up? You look kinda pissed."

Garnet shoved him back inside the public restroom, making him stumble. "I thought I told you, _expressly _told you not to tell anyone?" he said harshly.

"Tell anyone?" the small man looked confused for a moment. "I didn't say anything to anybody. Just calm down a minute."

Garnet backed him sharply into the wall near the sinks, grabbing a fistful of the front of his shirt. "No? Then tell me why suddenly people seem to have an idea about what _you _overheard?"

Pokey turned a shade of pale. "I didn't. I swear I didn't."

"You swear on your life?" Garnet eyes were sharp as a hawk's.

"I-I didn't, G. You know me."

"You're right, I do know you. So I'll ask you one more time, did you just rat out our friend to the locals?"

"I swear I didn't," Pokey repeated with wide eyes, shaking his head. "But," he ventured bravely, "I thought you said it wasn't true?"

Garnet released him, cursing under his breath and smoothing a hand over the crown of his head in agitation. "Doesn't matter if it is. The idea of it is enough. _Shit._" He looked back over at his roommate. "Is there anyone else that could have overheard what you thought you heard that day?"

Pokey frowned. "I didn't see anyone."

"Fuck."

"Did Dean get into a fight or something?"

"Yeah, and with that bonehead's hair-trigger temper, things are likely to go from bad to worse, real quick."

"It wasn't me, Garnet." Lewis said again, leaning against the wall with an anxious, petulant expression. "I know me and Dean don't always see eye to eye, but I wouldn't say anything, especially after you asked me not to."

_You came close a few times, _he thought, but didn't bother saying it. Pokey had loose lips a lot of the time, but it was mostly because he didn't think much about things before he said them. He wasn't vindictive, really. Just a little dumb. "But if you didn't, who did?"

* * *

><p>Sam pretended to skim the book titles on the shelf in the library, keeping a surreptitious eye upon his annoyingly elusive brother. He wanted to talk to him, but that had been impossible so far. For one thing, he always had people around him. The other thing was that he was stubborn.<p>

Luckily for him, Dean had broken off from the general milling of people in the seating area, and was drifting towards one of his usual haunts, the mechanics section. He hadn't seen Sam yet. He was just strolling aimlessly, looking vaguely bored as he looked at the shelves along the wall.

Once he was close enough, Sam's arm shot out, pulling him behind a row of freestanding shelves he'd been waiting behind. "Dean-" Sam started in a hushed tone, registering the flicker of surprise upon his brother's face. He paused, holding his hand up in a brief request for silence as he quickly peered out between the rows of books. He wanted to make sure no one had witnessed his disappearance before continuing. This was the first real chance he'd had in days, because of Dean's self-imposed restriction. That stupid note chaffed him, but he'd mostly gone along with it until now. Besides, they were not too noticeable here. "Listen," he quickly continued, before Dean could say something sarcastic to derail him. He'd tried one other time to talk to him and he'd been given the slip. He needed to get this out there. "The last few days... do you get the feeling that people are looking, I don't know, different?"

"Well," Dean considered aloud, keeping his voice pitched to a low drawl, "not all of them are known to be the best at grooming themselves, it's true."

"That's not what I mean," Sam said impatiently. He was in no mood for jokes. "It's like they're staring at _us_. You. Me. But especially at you."

* * *

><p>Dean rolled his eyes at his little brother. "I told you, Sammy, being around each other was going to attract attention." So he said, but this was something else. He could feel it in his gut. Animosity. Malice. Eyes boring holes into the back of his head.<p>

"Yeah, but even so, we're still practically avoiding each other."

"Like now?" Dean asked, quirking an eyebrow and smiling patronizingly at him.

Sam huffed, something which (Dean noted with amusement) he'd taken to doing with a roll of his eyes and a setting of his jaw which indicated he found whatever Dean had just said to be beside the point. He was also probably biting back a few choice words. Dean just happened to like instigating the response and seeing that haughty light instilled in his grey eyes when they turned his way once more.

* * *

><p>"I have to talk to you some time," Sam said with exasperation. "I'll go crazy otherwise." They couldn't keep up this avoiding-each-other thing forever. There had to be some kind of middle ground on this. "It doesn't mean I'm hitting on you," he added, since Dean's expression was more than heavily implying just that.<p>

"No?" Dean said, slipping closer. Too close. He locked lazy green eyes with Sam's. "Now that is a damn shame."

It had been a while since they'd been in each other's orbit like this. It was almost like he had to re-learn what it was like to have those catlike eyes slanting at him, as smug and full of promises as his solicitous voice. Sam's throat worked a little and he wet his lips. "I certainly wouldn't hit on you in a public place like this," he defended himself hollowly. "That's just asking for trouble." He missed being near Dean, and not having to worry about every little thing or who might be watching them. How long ago it seemed now that he'd merely been concerned over his own physical impulses, and being left alone with his 'roommate'. Who knew that those times would now seem a luxury, especially with how he'd been going out of his head with confusion and tension.

"Hmn," Dean said, letting a mischievous smile tilt his lips and watching the effect it had on Sam. "That doesn't mean _**I **_wouldn't." He leaned in to speak in Sam's ear, warm breath teasing it as his lips brushed delicate flesh, "You're so prim and proper when you aren't behind closed doors. It makes me want to see how far your stoicism lasts." He was close enough that their bodies were touching and he could feel Sam's body shudder slightly as he began nibbling at his ear and then his neck.

"Stop it, Dean," Sam uttered under his breath. His head was starting to spin, and he was losing hold of the thought that someone could always walk around that corner at any moment. If someone saw them, then what was the point of avoiding each other at all until now?

"Don't want to." Dean murmured then began to suck lightly at his throat.  
>He knew Sam was weak to that and could practically feel his knees buckle as he did it. "I want to hear you say my name," he whispered, his own pulse starting to pick up within his veins, "in that choked up voice you have right before you come."<p>

Sam shuddered against him, but when Dean went to kiss him, he pushed him back with some difficulty. His face was flushed and angry. "Are you just fucking with me?" he whispered tersely. "Is this your idea of laying low?"

"Not really," Dean admitted. "I missed you." He was getting ahead of himself, he knew it. But teasing Sam like this and watching him react was becoming like second nature to him. He did it without thinking. And he should be thinking; he just wasn't so good at it when just being near Sam like this was affording such a distraction.

_This stupid place,_ he thought with irritation. These people. Even their father. Everything seemed set to keep them apart. And he still had no idea what would become of them if they successfully got out of the state's mental health system. Was Sam being _his_ was only a temporary situation? When they got out, **if **they got out, would Sam want to start dating again? Being 'normal'? He didn't think so now, but what if that changed with their circumstances?

A quick press of soft lips against his surprised him, pulling him back from his cloying thoughts. "What?" Dean said eloquently.

"You were getting that look."

Dean's brows drew together. "What look?"

"That intensely serious look that borders on 'abandoned puppy'."

"Oh, shut up," he groused, prickling a little.

"You never come up with anything good when you're like that." Sam persisted, grey eyes searching his. Probing. Assessing. "More often than not, you are talking yourself into being extremely paranoid."

"So you're observant," Dean tossed out defensively. "You want a freaking medal?" Sometimes he found that he had still not adjusted to having someone see through him so clearly. There was nowhere to hide - no way to save face. He didn't need Sam to see this - his fear of the future.

"Dean, this isn't temporary."

"What isn't?"

"Us," Sam said definitively, seeing through him utterly, as if the words of his thoughts had been scrawled upon his very face. "Not for me it isn't, or I wouldn't have gotten involved."

Dean regarded him with a critical eye, tracing the contours of his sincerity until he was back to thinking of nothing but wanting to kiss him again. "I believe you." He believed in Sam's conviction at this moment, anyway. The future, as he'd seen, and as his father had always taught him, was unpredictable at best.

Grey eyes dulled as they processed the whole of him. "No," Sam said quietly, "you don't." His normally open face closed off, expression falling from its surface. All except for his gaze, full of hurt, anger and disappointment, which he averted swiftly as he brushed past Dean.

"Sam," Dean called after him in a hushed voice. "_Sammy!_" He was at a loss. "Come on, don't be like this," he muttered as he watched his brother's long strides quickly take him out of the library. "Damn it," he said, raking a hand through his hair. He knew Sam wanted him to trust him on this. He was trying to.

But if he completely believed in it, and then something changed... well, there wouldn't be anything left of him to piece back together.

* * *

><p>Sam stalked down the hall, anger clipping his strides. <em>Stupid. <em>_**Stupid. **_What did he have to do to get it through his brother's thick skull that he wasn't going anywhere? What did he have to do to prove himself?

If Dean would just look at this from another angle, he'd realize that he wouldn't just **do **something like this on a whim. He'd fought it as long as he could, but in the end, it was unavoidable.

_This isn't something that is just going to go away, you idiot. For better or worse, this is just the way things are._

And maybe they were always destined to end up here. Not here as in the hospital, but _here_, as in together.

Dean had spun him around and kept him off balance, even before he'd known who he really was. He'd reconfigured the way Sam thought about himself and made him reassess everything - his morals, his ideals, his feelings. Even from the beginning, he'd been too affected by those tilting green eyes and that sharp, mischievous smile.

It was bound to end up this way, no matter how he'd tried to deny it. He'd lost the race before he'd ever even heard the gun go off. Lost the war while he'd been busily trying to wrap his head around the battle he was having with himself. Now here he was, and that wasn't going to change. He just needed to find a way to convey this in a way his thick-headed brother could understand.

"Winchester," a voice called out to him while he stewed in his tumultuous thoughts. He looked up reflexively.

**Mistake.**

Of course it was a mistake, responding to 'Winchester', but the fact was driven home by the smug, scornful expressions on the three men who stood regarding him. _Damn it_, why had he answered to that name at all? He'd been answering to Campbell for over 10 years now. You'd think that would be enough to keep the name Winchester from being deeply ingrained enough for that old habit to come back.

"See?" one of the men said snidely, giving him the evil eye. "What did I tell you?"

Sam blanched. Had he seriously just blown their cover due to a little distraction? What the hell was wrong with him? _Fucking stupid, _he cursed himself. Was there any way to recover from this fumble?

If it were Dean, he'd probably just act pissed off and belligerent in response...

Well, it was worth a shot. Sam planted his feet in a hostile stance as he slowed to a stop. He tilted his head at them with an irritated gaze. "You assholes got a problem?"

"Not as big as the one you've got," one of the other men said. "Screwing your own brother," he spat.

Sam didn't allow himself time to reel from that revelation or the surprising wash of guilt and self-deprecation that followed. _How in the hell could they have even known? _"Says who?" he asked, managing to sound royally pissed off. "I haven't seen my brother in over 10 years. So how do you figure I'd be _fucking _him?"

The trio exchanged glances, looking a little uncertain now.

A few angry mutters and arguing words amongst them and then the man who seemed to be more or less the top dog of the group said, "You answered to Winchester, and sources say you and the other Winchester got something going on. I'd say that makes it pretty clear you're a sick fuck."

Sam felt his stomach drop but he forced out a laugh. "Dumbass," he scoffed and started to walk away, shaking his head.

"What'd you say?" the leader said sharply.

Sam turned slightly, tossing a bland look over his shoulder. "I said you're a dumbass. Anyone would look up if someone called out near them. But hey, if you think that makes me a Winchester or whatever, have at it." He continued walking and muttered aloud for their benefit, "Sam _Winchester_? Sounds retarded. Dumb fucks."

"You got something to say, Campbell?" the lead man called after him aggressively, reverting back to the name he was sure of. He sounded pissed off and a little uncertain.

"Nope," Sam said with a shrug, not looking back. "I've got nothing to say to the likes of you. Your stupidity might rub off on me." So far his plan was working better than expected. Unfortunately, if it went _perfectly_, he was about to be on the receiving end of something unpleasant any second now. Three on one was not the best of odds, in his opinion.

There was the sound of running footfalls and he wasn't even able to turn before the first wave hit him, nearly knocking him off of his feet. He should be avoiding fighting, he knew, but he hadn't seen any other way to deal with this. Above all, it was imperative that no one knew the truth.

As he stumbled, his arms were grabbed from behind. _Aw, this is gonna hurt._ He was spun around and a fist drove itself into his solar plexus, almost as if in slow motion, knocking the breath from him with sickening force. Again and again, he took hits to his unguarded stomach, bile rising in his throat, but he was unable to do anything about it. Another blow crashed against his face, whipping his hand to the side. _Ugh._He sagged against his captors as his vision blurred.

"You sure got a smartass mouth on you, just like Dean," the leader huffed, his breathing heavy with the exertion of using Sam as a punching bag.

Sam lifted his head and laughed a little. He totally couldn't see straight. "What can I say?" He made his lips turn up in a cracked smile, his voice sounding a bit raw behind the flippant tone he'd adopted, despite his efforts. "Guess it rubs off on a guy."

"He's nuts," someone muttered with disgust.

"Watch yourself, Campbell," someone else said as he was tossed to the floor and kicked aside. They were abandoning their attack.

"Leaving already?" he called out after them, another laugh escaping him.

They ignored him and were soon turning a corner, out of earshot.

Sam let out a slow breath and winced as he lay his head back upon the cold floor where he'd been dropped like a sack of potatoes. He decided to rest there a moment, closing his eyes and assessing the need for a few minutes to gather up the willpower to even move. Never mind who might come upon him in the hall, wondering why the hell he might've decided to take a nap in such a heavily trafficked area. "Ow," he announced ruefully, belatedly holding a hand to his abused stomach.

Well, at least he'd been successful.

It was a shame his head was starting to pound for his efforts.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N:** Chapter title is from "Hush Mail" by Infected Mushroom.


	26. Drop Out

**Asylum**  
>Supernatural, AU<br>Dean/Sam

**Summary: **For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

***Disclaimer***I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

* * *

><p><span>Ch. 25: Drop Out<span>

Dean looked up as Sam came into the cafeteria later that night, dragging ass. "What the hell happened to you?" Dean asked, giving his brother a once over as he approached the table he was occupying alone. If he didn't know better, he'd say his little brother had been in a fight.

Sam straightened his jean jacket, kind of shaking his head as his jaw locked. "Nothing," he said as he sat down. "Where's your posse?" he changed the subject, grabbing a roll off of Dean's dinner plate. "This might be the first time I've seen you without them."

Dean gave him an imperious frown, swiping his plate back protectively. "What do you mean, _'Nothing'_? Just look at you."

Sam shrugged. "I said it's nothing," he repeated dismissively, taking a hefty bite out of the stolen piece of bread.

"So you say, but you're full of shit," Dean persisted with a scowl. "And give that back." He reached across the table with the reflexes of a cat and snatched the roll back out of Sam's hand.

"Oh, so you don't share anymore?"

"Not with you." Sam's evasiveness was pissing him off. Not to mention his sarcasm.

"Nice. Real nice, Dean."

Green eyes narrowed. "I'm not wasting my dinner on you if you're just gonna feed me a line, expecting that it'll go down easy. Go get your own food if you're so damn hungry." He took an angry bite out of the roll he'd wrested back, too irritated to even bother buttering it now, though it tasted pretty bland plain. "The line's open for another 10 minutes. You better haul ass."

It was last call in the cafeteria. Usually it was only a handful of people in here at this hour. He came in sometimes just for the peace and quiet. Getting a second dinner was just an added bonus he gave in to now and then.

"Fine," Sam said, getting to his feet and ghosting off.

Dean stubbornly kept at his food, but after a minute or two, he glanced over his shoulder to verify Sam's whereabouts. It would be just like him to act like he was going to do one thing, then turn about and do another. Like vacating the cafeteria entirely when Dean was not _nearly _done grilling him.

He was there, in line, just as he was supposed to be.

Dean turned back to his food, letting out an exasperated sigh as he ate. His shoulders were stiff with tension as he practically tracked Sam's movements with the eyes in the back of his head, waiting for him to finish.

The instant he'd laid eyes on Sam just now, the first time since they were in the library earlier, he'd been certain beyond doubt that he'd been in a fight. Which was utterly _mental_ since Sam pretty much pitched a fit if **he **was fighting. What was with the double standard? They'd both kind of agreed that they should avoid attracting attention to themselves, yet here they were getting pulled into all manner of bullshit.

_At least I only did it because I had no choice,_he thought.

Sam seemed to think he was a total live wire, that he lived by knee-jerk reactions to his surroundings, but that wasn't entirely true.

_(No choice? Really?) _

Some part of him called 'bullshit', but he ignored it.

_What, was I supposed to let some jackhole go around spreading rumors and shit about us being related and all? _He shook his head, nearly rolling his eyes. _Like to see how __**that **__would fucking blow everything out of the water._

The clatter of a tray hitting the table made him look up. Sam didn't look at him, just settled down on the bench with nonchalance and picked up a knife and fork.

"Really, Sam?" Dean said, forgetting his meal momentarily.

Sam glanced at him. "What?"

He indicated his brother's plate. "Salad? Really?"

Sam shrugged and stabbed his fork through a chunk of lettuce, cutting it into a manageable size. He almost looked prim as he lifted the fork to his mouth and ate it, then continued dissecting more of his 'meal' with medical precision.

"I thought you said you were hungry?" Dean just couldn't leave it alone.

"I didn't say anything about that, you did." The only other thing on his tray was a steaming cup of coffee.

"You're doing this just to spite me, aren't you?" Dean accused him. It bothered him to think that Sam wouldn't eat because of him, just because he was a little pissed off. It went against his sense of duty to allow it.

"Dean," Sam said with exasperation. "I'm _not_. Just drop it." He stabbed another forkful of lettuce. "It's mostly all they had left. Besides, I like salad. It's good for you. You should try it sometime."

"I'm not a rabbit."

"Me neither."

Dean frowned. "Here," he said, pushing his plate of half-eaten Manicotti across the table. He felt guilty eating something substantial while his brother threw ineffectual green stuff into his gnawing stomach. "Get a little Italian in you."

Sam paused, speared vegetables held aloft. "Are you trying to share with me _now_?" His eyebrow raised in a blandly questioning fashion that appeared like he was being challenging. "I thought I wasn't worth the effort?"

"Shut up," Dean said, pushing his plate further away and leaning back. He feigned indifference. "Watching you eat that stuff made me lose my appetite. 'Sides, I ate earlier."

"I'm fine."

"Just _eat _it, Sammy." Agitation prickled him as Sam refused his gesture and stared him down. He was just like a little kid, refusing to eat his vegetables, only this was some twisted backwards version of it.

Eventually, Sam sighed and dropped his gaze. "Fine, fine," he muttered pushing the salad aside and picking up Dean's knife and fork. He cut into one of the remaining Manicotti and took a big bite. "Happy?" he said around the mouthful.

"Nope," Dean replied, crossing his arms. "You're gonna have to finish that. I'll be pissed if you waste it."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Lost your appetite, my ass." He dutifully kept at the cheese-filled pasta dish, however. Dean wasn't sure if it was to humor him or because his brother really was hungry. He hadn't seen him at dinner, so maybe he'd skipped. That he'd gotten the coffee seemed to support that. It He appeared to have a bad habit of substituting the beverage for actual meals.

_The least I can do is make sure you take care of yourself, idiot,_he thought at Sam.

While his brother was often like an open book, he also had times where he shut off and seemed to cram everything down, down deep where he could pretend it didn't exist. It made him act strange and disconnected, like the building pressure of it was changing him, making him sharper around the edges. It couldn't be good for him.

_Guess that's a family trait._

"Listen, Sammy," Dean said, leaning his elbows upon the table and shooting his brother an earnest look. "You can deny it all you want, but I can see what's in front of me. I know what a guy looks like when he's been in a fight, and you're that guy." He tried to sound as un-accusatory as possible. As mellow and undemanding as possible so that his brother didn't just clam up on him. It was an effort. "I just want to know what happened."

Sam stopped eating and wiped his mouth on a napkin. "Why, so you can tell me what a hypocrite I am?"

"That wasn't the plan, though I am _dying _to say that," he admitted, feeling the corner of his mouth pull up in the beginnings of an inappropriate grin.

Sam glared at him.

_Oops. _He hadn't really meant for that to slip out. "Hey, you said it, not me," he defended with a half laugh.

That jaw locked in place and he had to grab Sam's sleeve to keep him from getting up and ditching. He held fast to the jacket at the corner of his arm. "Oh, come on, sit down." He could feel the coiled tension just beneath his hand. "I was joking. I wasn't really going to say anything." _Even though I wanted to._"I just want you to level with me, okay?"

Sam shook his hand off. "Like you leveled with me when you got into that last fight? No, wait, all you did was leave me a stupid, bullshit note and avoid me for days. You're right, Dean, I'm the only hypocrite here."

Dean's mouth twisted and a sour expression crossed his face. "Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have done that. But I thought you were just going to bitch at me."

"See? You don't give me any credit," Sam said, his mouth pulling down into a heavy frown. "What is the point of anything if you can't even trust me enough to let me react to something on my own? You just tell yourself what you think will happen and act like it's gospel."

"I don't," Dean protested. Grudgingly though, he admitted that it sort of sounded like the truth.

"Are you so afraid of being told what to do?" Sam accused him. "And of other people's opinions?"

"Well, you don't always see the big picture," he snapped back. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Stop hiding shit from me all the damn time. Maybe then I could see this," he sketched his hands in the air condescendingly, "'Big Picture' of yours."

_Goddamnit_, Dean thought in aggravation. He knew he had to cough up some sort of conciliatory gesture here, but... he folded his hands tightly where they sat on the table, looking down at nothing in particular. "It's hard..." he forced out, not really wanting to talk about this. "I don't feel like I should." A spinal tap would probably feel more pleasant than this right now.

"Why not?"

"You're-" Dean regarded him, some unhappiness tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glanced around covertly and said, "In some ways, you're still my kid brother. I'm not _supposed _to dump things on you, I'm supposed to handle them myself."

"Says who?" Sam argued. "That's stupid."

Dean leaned back again, raking a hand through his hair. "That's just how it is, Sam. It's how I was raised."

"So, get over it," Sam demanded, still keeping his voice low enough not to carry. "You said it yourself - you can't see me in the same way anymore, I'm not just your little brother anymore, so why can't that change as well?"

"Because it's _instinct_," he insisted. "I don't even need to think about it most of the time. I can't just shut it off, and I don't really think that I should."

Sam let out a long sigh and brushed his hair out of his eyes, looking like he was trying to compose himself. "You frustrate me to no end."

Dean allowed a slight smile to tug at the corner of his lips. "That almost sounds like you're bracing yourself to forgive me or something."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam scoffed. "Don't bet on it though."

Ah, he _was _relenting. What a relief. "You gonna tell me why you got into a fight now?"

Sam sighed again, his gaze darkening. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if fending off a headache. "I know I shouldn't have, but I didn't see a way around it." Stress and anger marked the lines of his brother's face, making his skin look stretched tight upon his angular features.

"Well, that's not like you." The consummate peacemaker starting a fight? He'd only seen Sam do that once, here in the cafeteria. He typically avoided making a scene.

"I screwed up."

"How so?"

"I was distracted..." Sam trailed and then shook his head, deciding not to follow that train of thought to its completion. "And, stupidly, I answered to Winchester." He looked self-deprecating as he said this, so Dean didn't comment. "Now, I kind of understand why you get into some of these fights - in certain situations it seems like the only solution."

"What happened, exactly?"

Sam briefly recounted the scene to him, and while he might have been amused in another situation that Sam had thought to emulate him, the gravity of the whole thing was a sinking hole in the pit of his stomach. If both of them had already had run-ins like this, it looked like word was spreading fast. He thought Sam had handled himself pretty well, but he doubted the cover would last for long.

_Damn it all. I thought we'd have more time._

"So, what do you think?" Sam asked, giving him that peering look that said as clearly as words that he was pretty sure he already knew the answer, and didn't like it, but expected Dean to level with him anyway.

"Geez," Dean breathed, running a hand over his lower face in a haggard manner. He didn't want to level with Sam. He didn't want to validate that soldier-like look in those eyes. He didn't want Sam to have to face hard truths or see the ugly side of life. It didn't suit him. "It doesn't look good," he said lightly. "Probably have to kill the lot of them to be left alone."

"Well, that isn't an option, so what is Plan B?"

"Lay low."

"We already tried that. And if I'm not mistaken, the reason you got into that fight a few days ago was the same reason I did. It's like we're being targeted."

"I'm still a fan of Plan A."

He was sort of joking, but sort of not. He didn't like being pushed into a corner. It made him... irritable. And if things kept going like they had been, and if they didn't leave Sam alone, he was sure that Plan A was going to become an unavoidable outcome.

"Dean, you have to try and avoid thinking like that. You can't keep repeating things like what you did to that guy... what was his name?" he prompted. "The one you mangled?"

"Gordon."

Sam was getting that weird look in his eyes, like he'd forgotten the details of that incident until he'd brought it up himself just now.

"Right," Sam said in a subdued voice. He looked a little pale. "You can't do that again. Ever."

"I can't promise you that."

Grey eyes searched his face, tension bracketing them in thin lines. "You realize that you went too far, don't you?"

Dean shrugged, knowing that a real answer would be against what Sam wanted to hear. "I tried to avoid a confrontation with him for a long time." He really had, knowing instinctively how hard the clash between them would be.

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, closing his eyes briefly. He sensed the evasion and was trying to recoup. "Alright. At least you tried." It was a paltry offering but seemed to be the best that he could do.

Personally, Dean didn't feel responsible for the outcome when Gordon had been so glibly pushing his buttons. He'd even tried to warn the asshole off before losing his temper completely; a rather decent thing to do, if he said so himself. "Look, Sammy. I'll do my best, okay?" He tried to sound placating. "If people are finding out about this so fast, then trying to silence them won't work anyway. I'll just stay out of dodge and avoid confrontation."

"Thanks," Sam said quietly, looking utterly stressed out. "How are they finding out, anyhow? We'd been so careful."

"I don't know." He really didn't. It was strange, to be honest. The only thing he could think was that Gordon had talked to one of his buddies before their run-in with each other. Maybe they had gotten the notion from him, then had seen something in the brief moments that he and Sam had been around each other that made them wonder. But why now and not earlier? It was like crisis was culminating upon crisis and there was no room for a breather.

They were supposed to be focusing on finding their dad, not fucking around with people's opinions on their relationship. And yet, people were forcing the issue by being aggressive, making them waste time on it.

The more he wanted to check out the remote areas of the building for John, just in case, the more shit seemed to be headed his way. It was so uncanny it almost seemed connected. "I want to check the basement," he said, changing the subject. "And the underground. We've looked almost everywhere else."

"I know, but I think that might be a little difficult at the moment." Sam looked about as frustrated as he felt. "Dad's been missing too long already. We have to find him fast, but it seems like lately, everyone is marking our every move."

"Doesn't that seem like a _coincidence _to you?"

The lines of Sam's face sharpened. "Yeah. A coincidence. Conveniently."

"You think there is any credit to what Dad was saying about some whackjob doctor he knew? That he's here now?"

"I don't know," Sam trailed dubiously. "It does seem kind of far-fetched."

"Yet it might explain a few things."

Sam gave him a patented 'you're crazy' look.

"What? I'm just playing devil's advocate here," Dean said defensively. "Just a little session of 'what if?'."

Sam was shaking his head. "What would the purpose be?"

"Hey, you're the one that was convinced dad was abducted, you tell me."

His brother heaved a sigh and leaned his elbows on the table. "Ok... Well... Maybe the crackpot doctor didn't feel like he'd finished with him yet?"

"So we have a stalker doctor?" Dean shrugged, finding it a little funny. "Seriously?"

Sam shot him a dirty look. "I _told _you I don't know."

"Alright, alright." But now that he thought of it, their dad was convinced the doctor was here prior to coming. Knowing John, he might avoid contact with anyone he thought was compromised. For instance (and this was a stretch for him to even consider) what if their dad thought that the doctor had been in contact with him? Wouldn't his father be just the type to avoid him in case this had happened? It might explain why he'd come to see Sam and yet did not spare a moment for _him._John was a hunter through and through. He would not do anything to give away his position or give his enemy the upper hand.

"Hey, Sammy? What if Dad thought that the doctor he mentioned had gotten ahold of me and scrambled my brains?"

Sam frowned and considered. "Well... In that case, it would sort of make sense why he didn't come to see you yet came to see me. But does that mean this doctor followed you from facility to facility? I mean, you've been in the system for years."

"Mn." Yeah, it did seem a little far-fetched. But part of him wanted to believe that something like that was the reason John never bothered himself to drop by.

"Dean, I'm sure he had his reasons," Sam reassured, his voice only subtly sympathetic so as not to seem coddling.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Dean agreed, agitation itching beneath his skin. "He always did." Was it foolish of him to hold on to the hope that his father had some higher purpose, some valid reason for leaving him to rot? He wanted to believe that it was part of the hunt, that his father knew some grand scheme that _**he **_wasn't aware of; though, deep down, the resentment that flowered within him spoke to the contrary. And Sam's empathic reassurance was just making him more certain that the worst case was true. "Hey, what do you say to getting out of here?"

"Sure," Sam said promptly, still eyeing him like he was going to collapse in self pity or something.

"Come on," he said, getting up. He felt twitchy now, agitated. Not only that, but even with the few people that were in the cafeteria, it was like all of their eyes were upon him and it was making him want to lash out. Some other part of him was just wanting to be alone with Sam, somewhere where they didn't have to worry about how they appeared to others. Somewhere where he could reaffirm the one connection he felt he had. Just to be able to rest his head against Sam's shoulder and feel like he still belonged somewhere, even if John had abandoned him like he'd always feared.

He dumped his tray and stalked out of the cafeteria, wanting to put it all behind him. He wanted to rely on Sam, yet in some ways he was afraid - afraid that if he put any weight upon that bond, that it, too, would dissolve in a wisp of smoke.

"Dean, I said wait up!"

Sam jogged up to him as he slowed his pace. "Geez, didn't you hear me?"

"No." Dean furrowed his brow. "Only just now."

Sam shook his head, looking slightly annoyed. "I called out to you a few times. I thought you were ignoring me or something."

"Sorry," Dean said flatly, "didn't mean to." He was actually surprised at how far he'd walked without noticing. They were in the hallway near the men's bathroom. The agitation had not dissipated. "I'm going to hit the can," he said, looking for any excuse to get a moment away. It wasn't fair to Sam to want to vent this upon him.

He made his way into the dreary, tiled chamber and rested his hands upon one of the sinks, ducking his head a moment to still the chaos racketing his cranium. At times like this, he wanted something... something like destruction, either his own or someone else's. It came up from time to time, and still he was at a loss for how to deal with it.

It was stupid to put such importance on family, he thought self-deprecatingly. His mom had abandoned him early on, and maybe his dad had, too. Was he that bad of a son? Was he that easy to leave?

Was it only a matter of time before Sam dropped him, too?

God, it made him want to grab onto whatever he had of Sam, to rip into him and instill himself upon his brother until he was sure that he would never be forgotten or tossed aside. He wanted to bury these feelings of worthlessness by losing himself in the shared heat of forbidden lips.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He'd always thought of himself as normal... but what if that was an illusion? What if his mother was normal, and Sam as well, and it was his father and even himself that were off the deep end without even knowing it? Spurned without really understanding _why_?

_'You're just like him.'_

He'd never forget his mother saying that to him, as if it explained every little thing and justified her leaving.

He gripped the sides of the porcelain sink with white-knuckled hands. Weren't mothers supposed to love their children beyond all else? Weren't they supposed to love and protect them with near animal ferocity? So why did his mother find it so easy to abandon him like some blighted thing? Why had those maternal instincts only been there for wide-eyed little Sammy? What had been so abhorrent about _his _younger self?

And what a way for his father to repay his loyalty - by dropping him like a hot coal just a few years later.

If anything made him crazy, made him feel utterly mental and out of control, it was this. It welled up from some dark pit within him, sloshing within his chest and he just wanted to lash out and become something worthy of leaving. He didn't want to be left while trying his best.

A hand on the back of his neck made him jump like a jackrabbit. His face was pale and ghostly beneath his dark hair in the mirror. Sam's face hovered in the gloom behind him, over his shoulder. He didn't say anything but his reserved, tight-lipped face said it all.

"I'm fine." Dean shrugged his hand off and turned on the faucet, splashing water over his face. Damn it, he hadn't thought Sam would follow him in here.

"You don't look fine," Sam said, watching him with careful eyes.

Dean plastered a smile to his face and went for a bad joke. "Every inch of me is fine," he drawled, "not to mention sculpted like a Greek god."

Sam rolled his eyes, but the worried look didn't really fade from them. His ploy hadn't worked. "Dean," he began, but Dean cut him off.

"I'm fine," he said sharply, lifting his shirt up to dry his face. He felt like he was losing his shit; and that urge to press his brother up against the wall and lose himself in his scent and violate his soft mouth was raging in him, making things worse. "Stop badgering me."

The urge was misguided. It was more than the attraction he felt, it was steeped in the jealousy of having his mother pick Sam over him, and his dad as well. It was how everyone had been circling around his pristine, perfect little brother, making him feel like a leper. He wanted to force himself upon that image, tear it down, bring Sam down to his level, and to feel a little less unwanted. But it wasn't fair to his brother, the only person that seemed to feel he had any worth. It wasn't fair to want to spend these pent up feelings upon him. He knew that, and yet he was having a hard time fighting himself not to act upon it. It was pissing him off and Sam wasn't giving him space.

"I'm not badgering you," Sam shot back, bangs falling into his beautiful, smoldering eyes. "I'm just worried about you because you aren't acting like yourself."

"Yeah, well, you're bothering me," he said harshly.

"Yeah? Well excuse me for giving a fuck." Sam was looking properly pissed off now.

Dean shrugged, knowing the lack of response would infuriate his brother more than anything else.

There, as if on cue, Sam's jaw locked in place and his eyes practically burned with pent up anger.

_Just leave me be, Sammy,_he pleaded silently. He needed some space so he could sort himself out. Right now he felt like a ticking time bomb or a volcano ready to explode. He was not in control. Pissing Sam off on purpose, he almost felt like he was taking a backseat to someone else's fight.

Sam shoved him back abruptly, striking him in the shoulder. "Is there some _reason _you're acting like a total dick all of a sudden?"

"Maybe I'm getting sick of having you follow me around all the damn time, ever think of that?"

Oh, that struck a nerve.

He couldn't be properly surprised when Sam's curled fist landed upon his jaw. _Boy, he really didn't hold back on that one, did he?_After the initial flare of pain, his jaw went numb and sort of throbbed. He was, however surprised when Sam followed that with a matching blow to the other side which made his head spin. "Ow, fuck," he muttered as he staggered back, a hand coming up to his face. His other hand groped behind him and found the edge of a sink to brace himself against.

"You're such an asshole," Sam spat, pushing him up against the wall between the sinks roughly, then pressing an angry mouth upon his.

Mentally, Dean reeled, even as his body was already taking over for conscious thought, mouth sliding open to welcome Sam's. His feelings were throttling him as he came back to himself and all he knew how to do was kiss back like it was his last moment among the living and he twined his arms around the aggressive lines of his brother's lean body.

This was okay, wasn't it?

It wasn't his own lack of control that led to this - to the harsh clashing of lips and teeth, and the will to devour. It was Sam who had initiated this, so it was okay to give up and give in to it. That's what he told himself, anyway. He pulled Sam to him, funneling his frustration, his fear, his anger, and all the tumultuous feelings into him. It was almost a catharsis. Slowly, the feeling of desire was rising above it all, like it was ripping everything else out of him and he could only focus on where their bodies touched, and on the hips that pressed against his.

His hand slid beneath Sam's shirt, feeling hot skin, solid flesh. Proof that he wasn't alone. His other hand coiled in Sam's hair, almost hard enough to hurt, as he fed from his mouth. Waves of raw emotion and sensation flooded him. He'd never been so harsh and aggressive with his brother before. He feared it even, but he couldn't stop himself. He was a raw nerve. A live wire. And Sam wasn't doing anything to stop him. In fact, he was making it worse, breaking from the kiss to run a hot mouth against his throat.

Dean's eyes slid shut as he leaned back against the cool tiled wall between the sinks. Sam's hand brushed across the front of his pants, enflaming desire, tracing the need that coalesced there and making him toss his head back as it sharpened in his gut. "Sam," he murmured unconsciously, breath catching in his throat as fingers grew more bold; they squeezed him, making him shudder.

"Stop pushing me away," Sam said, hunting his lips. "I hate it when you do that."

"I-" Dean began, some excuse or other ready to fall from his mouth.

"Shh," Sam interrupted. "I don't want to hear it." His voice was sharp with annoyance but there was an undertone of something warmer, deeper and sensual.

Dean felt the timbre of it lance through him and he couldn't play at being patient any longer, not with Sam so close he could feel his breath upon his mouth. Compulsion and desire were flooding him unbearably, resting upon his tongue and pulsing within his thoughts until they nearly had life enough to control him. He grabbed hold of the front of Sam's shirt, slinging him in a tight circle so that their positions were reversed and pushing his brother against the wall. He inhaled his clean, slightly musky scent as he ground their hips together and pinned Sam's hands back against the ugly blue tile.

He was rewarded with the startled hitch of breath against his hovering lips, and a knee-buckling groan. Sensation flared in his belly, and he rocked against the solid yet yielding body before him, collecting every stifled noise that Sam tried to hide as he bit his lip.

_Let me hear you, _he thought, enthralled. _Everything. _His eyes drifted closed as his lips brushed Sam's lingeringly, though his speeding pulse was beating insistently in his ears, urging haste and action. He explored the rough, silken quality of them, drawing out his desire to kiss them before he gave in to temptation and tasted. He could lose himself forever in the welcoming heat of his mouth and the passionate, debilitating caresses of his tongue.

Wanting to hear more, he ceded Sam's mouth as he rocked his hips against his brother's more emphatically, trapping their passion more tightly between their taught abdomens. He drifted in to draw distractions upon sexily parted lips, preventing Sam from biting them and barring sound.

It was all he wanted and needed in this moment - Sam's flushed face, eyes rolled back and breath catching in his throat in a staggered cadence. It flooded his being, rocking the inner part of him like an earthquake. _How did I ever live without you?_

"Dean," Sam gasped, losing to his body at last. His eyes screwed shut as his back bowed. His lips were so flushed they almost looked red in the dingy lighting. Dean caught his full lower lip in his mouth and felt it tremble between his lips as Sam shuddered, reaction flooding through him in turn. It was bittersweet, the sharp stab in his loins and the final, crumbling bastion between himself and the burning edge of orgasm. If only this could last forever, this fluid moment of heightened awareness, of oneness. This feeling that nothing else existed but the two of them in their own inner world.

How long will it last?

How long _can _it last - a fleeting euphoria in the embrace of this fucked up world?

* * *

><p>They slept that night in the basement, Dean announcing that he was sick of all the damn orderlies telling him what he could and couldn't do, and Sam not feeling much like arguing anyway. It wasn't very comfortable, or warm for that matter, but neither of them seemed to care much about that as long as they could stay together. They made a bed out of the cement floor and pillows out of some heavy burlap sacks that were either completely full and hard or lumpy, which they piled together, then flopped down with each other in an exhausted heap.<p>

"A bed would sure be nice," Sam said as he drifted off, tangled up with Dean. It may have been cold down here, but Dean's arms were warm around him and his presence was reassuring and calming in ways he couldn't begin to describe. He'd missed being able to just lay like this, not having to worry about the orderlies checking in on who was out of bed or in someone's else's bed with them. He was mostly just complaining because Dean expected him to.

"What are you talking about?" Dean said softly as he nodded off. "Haven't you ever heard of roughing it? Man. The things you missed out on, living with mom. Bet she never even took you camping."

"Nope. Did dad take you?"

"Naw, he didn't have time. I went on my own." A giant yawn interrupted his speech. "Woulda been more fun with you along," he murmured sleepily.

"So I'll go with you next time," Sam yawned, but Dean's breathing had already become deep and even with sleep. Sam shrugged and settled his head more comfortably on his brother's shoulder before following him into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

**A/N: **Chapter title from Infected Mushroom. The informational blurb at the end of the author's note is not why I picked the song, but I thought it was interesting.

**"Drop Out"**  
><em>Spoken Intro: <em>  
>"But they all do 'sort of' the same thing, and that is rearrange what <em>you<em>thought was real. And... um... they remind you? of the beauty of pretty simple things. You forget, because you're so busy going from A to Z, that there's... uhh … 24 letters in between..." (-Timothy Leary, "Turn on... tune in...drop out"*.)

(echoed)  
><em>Letters in-between <em>  
><em>Letters in-between<em>  
><em>Letters in-between<em>  
><em>Letters in-between<em>  
><em>Letters in-between<em>

You tend to... _(tend to)_  
>Tune in... <em>(tune in)<em>  
>And you drop ooout <em>(drop out)<em>  
>[x6]<p>

You tend to... Tune in... And you drop OooOOuut

music

You tend to... Tune in... And you drop ooOut...  
>[x2]<p>

music

You tend to... Tune in... And you drop ooout...  
>[x2]<p>

Music, choir-like chanting

Distorted  
>You tend to... Tune in... And you drop ooout...<br>[x2]

***"Turn on, tune in, drop out"** is a counterculture phrase coined by Timothy Leary in the 1960s. The phrase came to him in the shower one day after Marshall McLuhan suggested to Leary that he come up with "something snappy" to promote the benefits of LSD. It is an excerpt from a prepared speech he delivered at the opening of a press conference in New York City on September 19, 1966. This phrase urged people to initiate cultural changes through the use of psychedelics and by detaching themselves from the existing conventions and hierarchies in society. The phrase was derided by more conservative critics.

The phrase is derived from this part of Leary's speech: "Like every great religion of the past we seek to find the divinity within and to express this revelation in a life of glorification and the worship of God. These ancient goals we define in the metaphor of the present — turn on, tune in, drop out."

Leary later explained in his 1983 autobiography Flashbacks:  
>"'Turn on' meant go within to activate your neural and genetic equipment. Become sensitive to the many and various levels of consciousness and the specific triggers that engage them. Drugs were one way to accomplish this end. 'Tune in' meant interact harmoniously with the world around you - externalize, materialize, express your new internal perspectives. Drop out suggested an elective, selective, graceful process of detachment from involuntary or unconscious commitments. 'Drop Out' meant self-reliance, a discovery of one's singularity, a commitment to mobility, choice, and change. Unhappily my explanations of this sequence of personal development were often misinterpreted to mean 'Get stoned and abandon all constructive activity.'"<p>

_The above is referenced from the _Bionity website_._


End file.
